


The Shadowed Heart

by hello_mintblooms



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin (2019), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Blood and Violence, Consensual Sex, Cutting, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kissing, Love, Magic, Making Out, Non-Consensual Violence, Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Thief Jafar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_mintblooms/pseuds/hello_mintblooms
Summary: Before he becomes the Grand Vizier to the Sultan, Jafar is a street thief struggling to survive on the streets of Agrabah. One night, he comes to the rescue of a young woman who may be the missing piece to unlocking a crucial part of his past. Through her, his life might be changed forever--and with it, his heart.





	1. Meetings Under Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Disney's remake of "Aladdin" (2019), I absolutely fell in love with the portrayal of Jafar as a street thief before he became the Royal Vizier. I wanted to explore this part of Jafar's life a little more, before he became obsessed with power and becoming Sultan. I don't think it's far-fetched to believe that he would have experienced love at some point, so I tried my best to explore that. I want to make this into a multi-part story, but we'll see. I'll add more tags as I post more chapters. I really hope I've done Jafar justice here, especially since he's my favorite Disney villain! Thanks for reading, and feedback is always appreciated.

The night is hot, sticky and intolerable in Agrabah. Above the splendor of the city, the moon sits high among the stars, shining its pale light on the sleeping kingdom of nobility, beggars, and thieves.

On the eastern side of the city, close to the desert's edge, stands a lone figure atop a rooftop worn and weathered by age and neglect. His body is wrapped in swaths of dusty brown fabric, a hood over his head obscuring his eyes. He crouches low, flat against the scorching bricks and slides towards the urns and ceramic bowls lined neatly against the sides of the building. He rolls neatly behind a barrel almost half his size and gets to work on the urns. His calloused, veined hands work quickly, scavenging for whatever scraps of food have been left behind, if any at all. He's not very hopeful, but he has to try. The rumble in his belly is deafening. Maybe he'll try the barrel next.

His thoughts shift rather quickly at the rustling of wings in the distance. Jafar whips behind him and squints into the night. Nothing but endless sand dunes stretching for miles and the twinkling of stars that almost seem to laugh at his misfortune.

"That wretched bird," Jafar mutters, sliding off his hood. He's thankful for this momentary reprieve from the suffocating heat, no matter how small. He reaches a hand towards his face; his beard is soaked in sweat, making the skin beneath itch. Sometimes it crosses his mind to shave, but it conceals his appearance well enough that it would be a shame to take the risk of being recognized. That, and razors--among most things in life--are a luxury that he simply can't afford. _And likely never will_ , the voice in his head whispers. He shakes it off and looks towards the skies once more. A small sigh escapes his lips.

"What's taking so long!" he hisses. "You would think that I sent him off on an impossible task, like making friends with that spoiled princess's stupid cat." To be fair, the bird's task hadn't been too difficult, though with Jafar's luck these days, he may as well have asked the creature to produce water from thin air, which was more likely than finding real water.

Jafar resists the urge to begin pacing the roof, no matter how frayed his nerves. Doing so would give him away if someone happened to look up from below, and so he settles for tapping his foot incessantly against the barrel as he crouches behind it. He ceases at once when he realizes how loud he's being. Should he drop down to the streets below? _No_ , he thinks. He's stolen far too much today that he would lose both hands if a vendor so much as glimpses his face while preparing stock for the next morning. He's been clumsy, much too clumsy. And the guards, there are the guards to worry about as well. Stupid bumbling fools.

_Where on earth is that bird?_

Jafar gives a start at the sound of high-pitched squawking in his ear. He falls forward and knocks the barrel on its side and watches as it rolls to the other side of the roof. A dog begins to yap away in the distance.

"Bwak! Sorry master!" the high pitched voice says. Jafar wants to scream, but instead settles for glaring at the red parrot perched on his shoulder. The creature has the nerve to look sheepish. Jafar reaches out to gently scratch the bird's head. Iago coos in response and leans into his touch.

"So?" Jafar urges. "What took you so long, my fine-feathered friend?" He hopes that Iago has found the well he seeks, but Jafar isn't very optimistic. Iago bobs his head up and down and spreads his wings.

Jafar presses a finger to his lips and Iago immediately stills. The parrot watches his master in fascination as he reaches into his robes and produces a single cracker. A low rumbling sounds from beneath the tattered brown robes as Iago gratefully takes the cracker in his raven beak. He manoeuvres it to his feet, grasping it tightly in his claws as he begins to pick at it. Jafar presses his lips to the side of the bird's neck. It can't be helped; he can deal with an empty stomach for a few days if it means his only friend is well-fed.

He's about to ask if he found the well when Iago stretches his wings and takes to the skies. He's a splatter of scarlet among the inky backdrop as he circles the roof. The cracker is long gone.

"Where are you going?" Jafar calls. But Iago only squawks, mimicking his master's low laughter when something has gone exceptionally right. "Hey, hey! You silly parrot, I am speaking to you! Get back down here at once!"

Iago cackles and flies directly at Jafar's head, nearly taking out an eye with his beak. The parrot pulls at his master's dark, close-cropped curls, and Jafar can only assume that the bird has completely lost what little shred of sanity it possessed.

"Are you crazy!" Jafar snarls. It's taking a real effort to keep his voice low. The guards will begin patrolling the streets at any moment now, and he has no desire to end up locked in some filthy, smelly dungeon simply for existing. Iago cackles once more and flies towards the sandy path leading from the desert into the city.

Jafar's dark eyes narrow to slits as he takes in the figure walking towards the path. His eyes soften almost immediately as the sight becomes clearer.

On the sandy path is a young woman, her hair wild and loose around her face, her body clothed in what appears to be the thickest, finest white fabric. Even he can make out its slight sheen from this distance. But it's not her clothing that makes the breath catch in his throat.

Jafar's eyes finally land on her feet, and true horror sets in when she begins limping towards the city gates. The guards aren't at their post yet, but they will be at any moment. He knows he has a choice to make, and he hates himself for knowing exactly what he's about to do. He slips his hood back over his head.

Jafar leaps from the rooftop with the practiced skill of a man who is used to being pursued at all hours of the day. Any lesser, skilled person might have broken all the bones in his legs, but not Jafar. He stays close to the shadows, using awnings and alleys as cover. The hushed murmurings of conversation reach his ears, but he sees no one in the streets. He runs toward the girl just as her ankles twist sharply and she falls forward, unleashing an agonized cry of pain. His hands reach to steady her, but that only serves to place pressure on her battered, bruised, and bleeding feet. She whimpers, and he dares to take a glimpse, regretting it at once.

Jafar has seen many things in his thirty-odd years of life on the streets. He has watched guards slice off the hands of thieves like himself in public view, blood spurting in all directions. He's seen men executed for murder and rape and seen women hung publicly for making a spectacle of themselves in places where the nobility preferred that they be seen and not heard. He's watched dear friends--the few that he'd made over the years--lose their lives for shielding him from harm. And for what? Jafar had glimpsed horrendous sights, and few managed to evoke the pity that this girl before him did. There's no flesh on her feet, only raw and red burns oozing blood and other unknown substances he would rather not think about. He can make out bruises, dark blue and inky black, on the few areas of skin untouched by the burns. The bruises extend to the girl's ankles; even the untouched skin is marred with angry red marks. He suspects infection. What _exactly_ has she been running from?

Iago finally decides to land on the sandy path and thinks better of it when the ground scorches his feet. He instead flies to a nearby tree, acting as his master's eyes and ears while he is otherwise occupied. The bird lets out a high-pitched, sly whistle, much like the ones made by the depraved men in the marketplace whenever they see a woman they believe should belong to them. Jafar simply ignores this and takes the girl into his arms, adjusting her body against his and ensuring that he has a tight enough grip. He's ready to run if he has to. She whimpers, fresh tears forming in her eyes.

"Girl, what is your name?" Jafar asks. His voice is like crushed gravel, quiet yet firm. He's not making demands, but you can tell this is a man who will not be trifled with. You tilt your face up to look at him, and before you can stop yourself, you reach up to brush your hand against his cheek. His beard is rough against your palm, and you read the surprise in his depthless eyes. "Did you hear me, girl?" the man says. "You cannot die on me yet. Not until I have answers."

The last thing you hear is the warning whistle of the red bird in the tree nearby and the shouts of guards as Jafar's sandals pound quickly against the brick-lined streets of Agrabah.  


	2. A Broken Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jafar seeks answers from the woman he rescued on the desert's edge. Her face is a reminder of something he can't quite recall--or perhaps, something he wishes to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a big thank you to those of you who left kudos and comments on the first chapter; it really does mean the world to me! I really struggled with this chapter, because I wanted to portray the softer side of Jafar while keeping the colder aspects of his personality intact. I hope that comes through here. Again, thank you all so much for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. I have so many ideas for this particular story, and yes--I already have a sequel planned if enough people are interested. Many thanks once again!

Jafar is blinded by hunger, thirst, and a very real lack of sleep that is threatening to whisk him away into a sticky web of memories and nightmares. He furiously rubs at his eyes, begging his body to keep him upright for at least a few more hours.

Last night had been brutal. When you had fallen unconscious in his arms--likely from the pain of having to endure no flesh on your feet--Jafar had heard Iago's warning whistle and sped through the night as if the dead had threatened to bury him alive in the sand. It was difficult, manoeuvring through the narrow streets with you in tow despite the fact that you are less than half his size and weight. He had used the shadows as his cover, and the cackles of his precious feathered-friend to distract the guards. It worked well-enough; the fumbling men could be heard shouting obscenities at the bird once Iago began picking at their skin with his beak and diving at their heads with no particular aim in mind. Jafar had stopped and turned when he realized the men had unsheathed their scimitars, worrying for the creature he called his only friend. But Iago was faster and much more clever; he had never failed Jafar yet.

Jafar doesn't like the amount of guards crawling throughout the kingdom as of late. He's not sure whether it's his imagination, but he feels as if they are there wherever he goes, ready to strike at every corner and at every whisper of his name. He senses that something is not quite right, and he has the sinking suspicion that he's being stalked and pushed into the city's center like a frightened animal being led to the slaughter. He wants to be wrong, but he usually never is.

He sits below an open window, his back pressed straight against the gritty stone wall. It took some digging to find this hovel, this place that someone calls home. It's dirty and teeming with neglect, but it's better than being out in the open. Laughter and rambunctious conversation floats up from the street below. The city is beginning to wake from its slumber, and Jafar can see the merchants and the common riff-raff preparing for the day ahead. A crushing weight begins to rest against his chest.

How foolish. He should have left you where he'd found you on that path. There's still time to change his mind, to take his leave in silence, much like he does whenever it's his life at stake versus another's. It would be a fairly easy thing to do and wash his hands of this ludicrous development.

Jafar looks to your ruined feet. A sudden feeling of self-hatred washes over him, both for his refusal to leave you and for thinking of doing so in the first place. He is not that kind of man, despite how much he may want to be.

You wake to blinding sunlight filtering through your eyelids and the feeling of hot coals pressed under your feet. You fight the urge to scream, making the mistake of trying to lift your weary body off the ground. Searing pain slices through you, and you topple back to earth once more. A steady hand reaches out to cushion your fall, however poorly.

"Stupid girl," a low voice hisses. You look up and meet the never-ending gaze of the man from last night. His name sits on your tongue, but you swallow it down like the bittersweet reminder it is. He could easily tower over you, his broad shoulders speaking of a hard strength gained through years of relentless sacrifice. A loose, bone-coloured tunic covers his chest, and he wears simple matching trousers. He is not wearing the brown robes you remember. "You cannot just get up and wander where you please. Use your common sense, if you have any. The sun must have addled your brains in the desert."

Looking around you, you find your possessions scattered about the room, littering the ground like tiny jewels. You're not sure where you are, but it looks to be a residential structure of some sort, one long abandoned by its owner. A rickety wooden table sits in the corner, an ancient bronze tea set perched on top. There's not much else in the room except for stained and crumbling brick, and tattered red curtains hanging by thin ropes from the ancient beams barely supporting the roof.

You notice that the water skin once tucked into your sash now sits empty, its contents poured into an ancient chipped bowl near the man. You still won't think his name. He kneels, dipping a rag into the water and squeezing out the excess. Upon closer inspection, you see that the rag is actually a piece of his robes, seemingly torn from the garment in a moment of desperation. The swaths of fabric lay folded neatly beside the bowl. He peers at you with narrow eyes when you say nothing. A flash of recognition dances across his face, though it vanishes into the air like smoke.

You fight the urge to throw yourself before him on your knees, but you can't, not now. Not until you're absolutely certain.

"Where are you from, girl? And what were you doing walking through the desert at all hours of the night?" He doesn't ask about what happened to your feet, although the question sits on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down. "Surely a woman of your..." Jafar steals a glance at the fine white fabric draped over your body. It gleams when caught in the light just right. He clears his throat and tries again. "Surely a woman of such _means_ has no business in the desert at such unseemly hours of the night." His statement sounds more like a question, an urging for you to speak up and either confirm or deny his words.

"I am not of the nobility," you say, finally finding your voice. It's surprisingly steady despite days of silence. "That is what you mean, is it not?"

A corner of Jafar's lips curves upwards, as if he has figured out all the world's secrets. "Interesting," he says quietly. "Interesting how you insist you do not belong at the palace, and yet you are able to produce such fine artifacts." Jafar holds out a small silver dagger, its hilt encrusted with sparkling, clear jewels. You pat the sash at your waist and the hidden pockets on the inside of your trousers, but there is nothing there.

"Do not worry," he reassures, taking in your wild expression. "I assure you I was quite the gentleman in obtaining this." He raises his brows suggestively, fingers caressing the blade like a favoured pet. "But fret not, dear one. I shall return this to you once you have answered my questions."

"Give that back to me at once!" you snarl, pushing yourself to your feet for a second time and tumbling back to the ground within moments. Your eyes shut tightly against the fresh wave of pain that extends far beyond your ankles. The world spins, and you suddenly have the desire to lean over the side of the building and hurl up the entire contents of your stomach. Maybe you could aim for this stubborn fool if he continues to grate on your last remaining nerve.

Jafar ignores you and takes a few steps to where you are seated rather awkwardly. A delicate ring of pure gold glints at his fingertip as he twirls it absentmindedly. The metal is curved into the thin body of a serpent, the tiny ruby eye glaring at you. Your gaze shifts to your own finger. It’s bare. Jafar grins wickedly as he crouches down on one knee before you, steadily meeting your rigid gaze. He presses a warm finger under your chin, tilting your face slightly upwards.

"Shall I continue relieving you of your possessions?" he mocks. "Or are you finally going to tell me who you are and what you were doing in that blasted desert?" This is the first time he's been able to get a good look at you, for last night's escapades bring to mind nothing of value other than running away from the law and the infinite darkness of the hot Agrabah night. Jafar takes in the combination of your lightly tanned skin and dark sun-bleached curls. Interesting. You rarely wore the veil required of you, then. Unlike other women in the kingdom. Your eyes, dark blue, stare unrelenting back at him. A foreigner, then. Either that or a local with a questionable blend of genes. He's met many foreigners in his life, though eyes like yours are a rare sight in Agrabah, and he is certain he would have remembered you had you crossed paths previously. You look as if you have not yet seen the change of twenty-five summers, give or take a few years.

And yet, something seems to stir within Jafar, the remnants of a time and place long past but not forgotten.

"If you like, I can continue taking everything you own, one by one, until you're relieved even of your garments." You know this should strike fear into every corner of your body, but you can't bring yourself to feel. You sense the emptiness of his words, but the threat of taking everything you possess is very real. That you know. "They are rather fine garments, I do have to say. And then what shall I do with you once you're free of them, your skin bare to the sunlight... Even a gentleman such as myself would be tempted. Why, it would be exceedingly easy for me to make an attempt on your virtue, and then what will become of you?" A grin splits Jafar's face; it's like looking at water and oil attempting to mix but failing miserably.

"You won't," you say, half-heartedly returning his grin. A retort is on his tongue, but you watch it die as you speak your next words. "I know you, Jafar," you murmur, turning your face away from him. "You would never do such a thing no matter what you say." You can see that his name falling from your lips haunts him. You're now even less certain about him than you were before.

His head tilts to the side, as if trying to take in your words one by one. His fingers reach to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Oh, I would never do such a thing, you say. Are you certain?" he whispers, steel in his voice. "Interesting how you know me so well when I still know nothing at all about you. If I knew better, I'd say you're hiding something."

"I--I've heard whispers," you stammer, not quite meeting his eyes. "You are--your reputation is spread far and wide beyond the borders of Agrabah. Many know of your...cunning." This isn't exactly a lie. You'd heard tales of the famous thief who vanished like smoke and got all that he desired with his twisted charm.

Jafar's laugh is all darkness. "Cunning," he repeats. "You mean _thievery_ ," he says, placing extra emphasis on the final syllable. "Yes, I am sure that word of my crimes has trickled down from the mouths of the royal fools to the common people. What do they say about me?"

You consider, choosing your words carefully. "They say--they say that you are intelligent, that you are a nuisance to the market vendors, and that you--you often help those in need at great expense to yourself."

Jafar closes his eyes momentarily, weighing your words for a moment. He scoffs. "I help no one but myself."

"Really." You point to yourself, then at the bowl filled with water long turned cold, the rag torn from Jafar's clothing resting on its edge. "So you rushed in last night to save my life and risked being seen by the guards just to fulfill some twisted fantasy of yours? Do you enjoy rescuing wayward women to feel superior? Does it make you feel like a man?" You watch his lips twitch, clearly fighting against the smile ready to split across his face. He reaches for the bowl of water and dips in the rag.

"You know," he begins carefully," I could just leave you here to rot until the inhabitants of this dwelling return and call for the guards to arrest you. Who knows what they may do to you."

You shrug. "Then let them arrest me. You may do as you wish, as I'm sure you have always done."

Jafar sighs. He hears the cackling screech of his parrot in the distance and thinks he should hurry and get answers before his feathered friend arrives to reduce what's left of his social life to tatters. He had sent Iago on an errand for food and supplies just before dawn, and the fact that he's circling their location suggests he's returned empty-handed. Predictable.

"Come here," Jafar says, his attention on your feet. Some parts of the wounds had begun to dry out overnight, but they still ooze blood and a yellowish liquid, the bruises even more visible on the unmarked skin. The skin around your ankles is still red and angry.

Jafar gently grasps your ankles and lifts your feet into the bowl, taking great care not to soak the hem of your trousers. Your screams drown out whatever words are tumbling from his lips, likely in an effort to quiet you. You bite down hard on your lip, your nails digging deep and puncturing the skin of Jafar's arm. You quickly let go, somehow remembering your manners through the hot slice of pain.

"No, please. By all means, continue," Jafar drawls, his hands firmly gripping your ankles to keep your feet in the water. You can't even blush at his touch, for the pain in your body runs deep and scrapes against your bones.

You're not sure whether Jafar is joking or not and you're not sure you care. In the ten additional seconds that he keeps your swollen feet submerged, you resume your hand's position on his arm, squeezing hard. The initial sting of the water seeping into your wounds is mostly gone, but they still hurt. Jafar says nothing about your abuse of his left arm.

He gently lifts one of your feet out of the water and begins wiping away the dirt nestled inside some of the wounds using the torn rag. You flinch, eyes squeezing shut against fresh tears. A whimper escapes you, followed by a blood-curdling scream that Jafar certainly hears but chooses to pointedly ignore. Instead, he ceases his ministrations and allows you to collect yourself for a few moments before wordlessly resuming the cleaning of your wounds. You don't object. This is more than anyone would have ever done for you in any situation.

When he's finished, he takes your feet and pats them dry using the cleanest parts of his robes. He rests your mostly dry feet on them, not wanting to risk more infection.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "You didn't have to--"

"I didn't," he cuts in."But I did."

You nod, looking at the dusty ground. Jafar slides closer beside you, crossing his legs. You sneak a glance at his profile from the corner of your eye. His tanned skin glows in the early morning sun.

"Now, are you going to tell me who you are and what you're doing here?" he asks, echoing his questions from earlier. He doesn't look at you.

You're not sure which version of the truth you should give him, so you choose the one that may give him the least cause for alarm. "I'm not much different from you," you say. "I'm...a thief."

He laughs, clearly deeply amused by your lie. "A thief," he repeats. "Sure you are. In those clothes and with such treasures? Do you take me for a fool? We may as well be honest with one another, do you not agree?" He laughs again, shaking his head, then turns to look at you when you say nothing. The golden serpent ring is curled comfortably back around your index finger. Jafar instinctively touches his own finger where the ring sat mere moments ago. Alarm settles into his features. The ring is not there.

"Believe me now?" you ask, a triumphant expression on your face as you point your index finger toward him. He purses his lips in frustration, hating the possibility that he may have underestimated you.

"Perhaps," he says. "But if you are truly a thief as you say you are, that still does not explain such fine clothing. An ordinary thief would never call such attention to herself, never mind be able to afford such linens."

"Correct," you begin, drawing out the word. "But have you forgotten that thieves steal? I can take what I like, whether it's food or the fabrics belonging to a princess. It matters not." What you do not tell him is that you haven't had the need to steal clothing in years; that's information for another time.

Jafar nods. "That is true. I suppose you women need to look your best, even when robbing people blind." He uncrosses his legs. "Are you from Agrabah?"

There it is, the dreaded question. You could lie to him, tell him you've been away for months in neighboring cities that were better suited to stealing. You could tell him anything, anything at all. Anything besides the truth. But Jafar is no fool, and he will see through any carefully-spun web of lies. Time had taught you this well.

"I hail from the Kingdom of Shirabad."

Jafar's eyes go as wide as the moon on the clearest of nights. Shock riddles his already blackened eyes. He blinks, and it's as if he had never heard the name slip off your tongue.

"I see," he says evenly, his voice unsteady. You hold your breath, bracing yourself. "And what are you doing so far away from your...kingdom?"

You want to lie, but he will know. He always knows. "I am employed by the Sultan and his wife. I--"

But you don't get to finish your sentence, because Jafar has you pinned to the ground, his body pressed roughly against yours and your own dagger resting firmly against your throat. His legs are squeezed tight around your hips, holding you in place.

"Who are you!" he snarls, his face dangerously close to yours. "He sent you to come after me, didn't he! The Sultan, you are here to spy, you are here to bring me back to that wretched place, you--"

"No one sent me!" you cry desperately, raising your voice to match his. The dagger presses harder against your throat. Any harder and it'll draw blood. "I don't know who or what you think I am but I am not here to harm you! I told you, I am a thief--"

"A thief employed by the Sultan of Shirabad? A _royal_ thief? What kind of fool do you take me for? I should slit your throat for your treachery."

"I _am_ a thief," you say again, more quietly this time. "I was--am--like you. A few years ago I got into...trouble. I was hired by the Sultan and his wife in exchange for my life and that of my loved ones." Your words are hurried, perhaps from shock or from the fear that this man will spill your blood at any moment. "I steal--but I steal _stolen_ goods. Items of value taken from the palace." The dagger lifts slightly. You don't dare move.

"Only goods?" Jafar spits rather mockingly, his face twisted with rage. "Or do you steal back people too?"

"Please, I don't know what you mean. I am not here to cause you any harm."

"Leave me." Jafar hurls the dagger against the wall behind you. You close your eyes against the sound of metal hitting brick, and open them in time to see Jafar gathering the few possessions he owns. He pulls his tattered robes from beneath your feet and wraps them back around himself, slipping the hood over his head. He lets out a high-pitched whistle, and he is answered by a similar call. Jafar raises his arm in front of him, and the red parrot from last night comes to land on his wrist. The bird squawks happily and comes to rest on his master's shoulder. You notice that wherever Jafar goes, the bird goes.

"Who's a clever boy?" Jafar asks, absentmindedly scratching the parrot's head.

"Not you!" the parrot trills. Iago may as well have spit in Jafar's face. He sighs heavily before the bird takes off again, cackling madly in the distance. Jafar finally turns to you. The hood completely obscures his eyes.

"You'd best get out of this place while you still can," he says, his tone cold and empty. "Whatever business you have, forget it and be gone. The journey to Shirabad is a long one, but if you can steal a horse--assuming you told the truth about being a thief--then you may be able to make it in two nights. The desert is not to be taken lightly." He steals a glance at your ruined feet. "Although I am sure you are aware of this."

"Wait," you call. Jafar jumps up to sit at the window, his legs dangling from the sill and his hands braced against the shutters, ready to propel himself out and away from this madness. "Wait, please! You can't just leave me here to--"

"Goodbye," he says. "And safe travels to you." He leaps off the sill and into the streets below. The surprised shouts of the mingling merchants tell you he will shortly resume making a nuisance of himself. Or at least, that's what those people undoubtedly expect.  

You want to run to the window, to scream at him, to beg him to come back, to make him _understand_. But instead you remain laying on the ground, your spirit broken and certainty cemented in your heart.

It _is_ him. It must be him. He is unmistakable. You would know that voice and those eyes even if you had died and lived a thousand lives over. _It is him._

You twist your fingers in nervousness...only to see your index finger bare of the golden serpent ring.

You look to the open window, the rickety wood shutters creaking in the breeze. All that remains of Jafar are his sandals, tucked neatly against the wall, and the sting of all that he has forgotten.


	3. Piecing It All Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After taking his leave of the thief he rescued at the desert's edge, Jafar ventures into the city's center to pursue a seer whom he believes can answer his questions about the watchful eyes surveying his every step. But the answers he seeks might not be what he wishes to hear, for it seems he already knows the truth, and it is something he wishes not to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I'm starting to get really emotionally invested in this story, so much that I'm spending all my free time writing. I know it's just a story, but Jafar is really near and dear to me as a character. That being said, I'm sure some of you are wondering where the romance is--don't worry, it's coming. First, I plan on dropping some reveals in the chapter after this one. Once again, thank you to all of you that are leaving kudos and comments on my work. It truly means the world to me, and as long as even one person waits for an update, I'll continue to write even though I'm not the best at it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Jafar wakes to the sound of his own labored breathing and freshly formed dreams threaded with pain and newfound anxieties. The jagged bricks of the street grate uncomfortably against his back as he pushes himself upright and moves out of the alley and into the heart of the city. He wipes the few minutes of precious sleep he's had away from his eyes and peers into the brightly coloured throngs of people moving through the maze-like roads of the kingdom. He takes a step, then another, and realizes he feels rather... _bare_. He catches sight of his feet and then promptly remembers, already wishing he hadn't. A cool breeze whips about his ankles, an unjust reminder.

It's been four days since he'd left you to fend for yourself in that broken, run-down hovel. He doesn't regret it, but the memory of your eyes, deep blue like the stormiest of seas, haunts him like a ghost in ways he can't explain. His nightmares often wake him to visions of those eyes, of piercing screams and of fear settling deep into his bones. He tries to be logical about it, tries to tell himself that he's simply tired and hungry and that his body is catching on to this fact, but even Jafar knows that this is a lie. There is something here, something that he's missing. _Or perhaps something I do not wish to see._ He shakes his head and moves one foot in front of the other. He has no time to wallow in your problems; he has his own to fret over.

Iago lands on Jafar's shoulder, but not before dropping an apple onto the gravel at his feet. Jafar bends to take it, hating the uncharacteristic quiet of his parrot as of late. The bird attempts to take off almost immediately, but Jafar practically snatches it from the air and meets him with a level glare.

"Stay," he hisses. Iago has the nerve to look offended, his feathers ruffling at once. He obeys despite his sour mood. "Why are you so fussy lately?"

The bird says nothing, unnerving Jafar. He leans against the wall at the end of the alleyway and produces a borrowed knife, beginning to cut the apple into small pieces. He sets down several chunks for Iago before partaking himself. The flesh is sweet and crisp, a rare luxury on Jafar's tongue. The bird takes his own pieces gratefully, but Jafar is still met with silence. _Is he ill?_

"Pretty lady! Pretty lady! Stupid master!" Iago chirps as he picks at his bits of apple. Well. There is his answer.

"You buffoon," Jafar snorts. "Is that why you're giving me the silent treatment, all for an insignificant, thieving whore?"

Iago ruffles his feathers once more, and continuous echoes of "stupid master" is all that can be heard in the alley. Jafar works his jaw, swatting at the parrot in an effort to quiet him. He misses, and Iago guffaws madly, resuming his picking at the apple.

There is an increased armed presence in Agrabah today, and Jafar no longer has doubts that all eyes and ears are on him. Guards dressed in the royal colours of the palace--a bright peacock blue and shining gold--are stationed two by two at every street corner, armed as if preparing for battle. He carefully scales one of the buildings on his way, seeing a rope ladder hanging from its side, and what he sees from the top rips the breath directly from his lungs.

There, in the middle of the main market square, are at least three dozen guards stationed in the crammed, busy space. Some stand by the market stalls, grouped in two or three, while others are not dressed in the garments of soldiers at all. Rather, they mill about the crowd, dressed as the common people would, but they are anything but common. Jafar notices their eyes darting carefully around, their movements practiced and precise from years of harsh training. He mutters a curse under his breath. _Why? What now? What has happened?_

He collects himself, takes a much needed gulp of air, and grips his hood tightly over his eyes. He will need to go through the crowd.

As frustrated as the bird is with his master, Jafar doesn't need to look up to know that Iago is circling above, ready to answer his call at a moment's notice. He hopes that he will not need the bird, because Iago against two guards is no trouble at all, but against a group of dozens? He hopes the bird is as clever as he seems and stays in his place should something run amok.  

Jafar silently falls from the rooftop and joins the mass of people making for the main marketplace square. He blends seamlessly into the crowd, taking great care to mimic the movements of those around him. He clenches his jaw as he passes the first set of guards at the main entrance. No one shouts in alarm or reaches out in pursuit of him; he's safe, for now.

The main square is a feast of bright colours and treasures taken from every corner of the world. The smell of sharp spices, slow-cooked meat and animal waste reach his nostrils. The people, too, are a mix of locals dressed in the plain rags of beggars or the jewel-toned fabrics of the upper classes; they are a blur of colour moving through the square. The merchants shout at every passerby, attempting to sell their wares. Jafar spies fat rubies and glimmering sapphires twinkling off a bracelet displayed at one of the stalls. His fingers itch almost painfully at the sight. His first instinct is to pocket it, but he remembers the guards and thinks better of it. His shoulders tense in annoyance. That bracelet could have paid for at least two weeks' worth of meals.

On the western-most corner of the square lies the textile merchant; he can't see very well through the crowd that has amassed, though he can make out the vibrant colours of the silks and satin shawls. This is not what he seeks, but he remembers spending much of his time stalking the movements of this particular merchant a few weeks prior, waiting until the end of the day to pilfer her leftover squares of fabric for himself.

What--or rather whom he seeks--lies in the side street just behind this stall, through the market's second entrance. This is the only method of access, as the sultan has recently made it nearly impossible to pass through without a very valid reason. Three guards stand watch here, and Jafar knows he will need to make some miracles happen.

He carefully weighs the risks of calling Iago for a distraction; he doesn't want to travel down that route if he doesn't have to. The thought barely has the chance to form when Jafar spies Iago already perched very sneakily on a wooden rack displaying a red silk shawl, his beady eyes surveying his master as he considers his options. No one takes notice of him.

Jafar makes a choice. He subtly points from the bird to the guards, and Iago immediately takes flight.

"What is this?" One of the guards, a wafer-thin man with tree branches for limbs tries to pull back when Iago lands on his shoulder. The parrot beings to cackle madly. "Shoo, go away!" the man cries, shaking his shoulder up and down. Iago continues to cackle in place, poking holes with his sharp claws in the man's uniform. A second guard swats at Iago with his spear, but the bird dodges the blow delicately before relieving himself on the expensive uniform of the first guard. Jafar gives a small amused chuckle at this display. A third guard--the last of this particular group--walks over and grabs a fistful of Iago's feathers.

"You stupid, filthy vermin! Get out here now!" he shouts. Iago responds by firmly grasping the man's finger in his razor-sharp beak. Jafar hopes the bite draws blood; how _dare_ anyone paw at his pet in that way.

"Ugly fools! Ugly fools!" Iago squawks, his wings flapping as he soars to attack one of the other men. Jafar sees his chance. The guards' backs are turned, too busy dealing with the chattering, obscene nuisance to take any note of him. He sprints for the restricted entrance, keeping to the walls.

Jafar has been to this district of the city several times before. There's an unsettling darkness to the place despite the sun shining high above the kingdom. He spies dirty children--two girls--no older than the age of five on their knees in the middle of the road, holding out cheap tin cups to anyone who would dare venture here. Their rags barely cover them. Further down, a pair of men partake in hushed conversation, their heads bent low and a wicked gleam in their eye as they look over the begging children with undisguised hunger. Bile rises in Jafar's throat, his face stony as he shoots them a glare of pure poison. Evidently, not much has changed since he was last here. He's suddenly reminded of a tarnished childhood teeming with humiliation somewhere in a far off kingdom, hundreds of miles away. He shakes off the memory and continues on, looking at no one and stopping for nothing.

The stench of unwashed bodies floats through an open doorway, mingling with the stinging scent of something sharper. It's the opium den, Jafar realizes. The place where perverse men and women pay for their poison of choice with gossip and the frantic pressing of bodies and limbs against one another. His eye catches on a lavender banner draped over the doorway of one of the buildings nearby that looks to be better kept--but only slightly--than all the rest.

Here. Here is his prize.

He doesn't waste time in knocking. The door swings open with a creak of its hinges, and Jafar strides through with all the air of a king coming to collect his spoils. The room is larger than most, and is filled with thick, hazy smoke curling like ribbons. The air is riddled with the heavy perfume of incense. Jafar is able to pick out notes of vanilla, hibiscus, and a hint of lavender before he proceeds to choke on the very air he breathes. He places a hand over his nose, coughing as he marches through the room.

He can barely see, for the lighting is minimal save for two candlesticks burning bright near the back of the room. Every available surface is crammed with trinkets of all shapes and sizes. He's surprised that no one has attempted to rob this place yet; a small, curved smile touches his lips. His fingers begin to twitch in anticipation, ready to do what he does best, but then he sees a jade skull grinning up at him with strange markings carved into its side and thinks better of it. He shudders and peers towards the back where a white lace curtain hangs, concealing a figure hunched forward on a stool.

"Is it possible for me to get some service here, or must I do everything myself?" Jafar calls, trying his luck. He seems to have very little left of it these days.

Almost at once, as if she had been expecting him, a woman appears from behind the curtain. She is middle-aged, her dark, grey-streaked hair partially covered by a turquoise shawl. Silver rings flash on her fingers, and the gold bangles around her wrists clink together as she walks. She raises a brow, a calm excitement in her eyes. The lines in her face run deep.

"So we finally meet," she says in a sweet, even tone, assessing him carefully with a smile. "I knew you would come. Jafar, is it?"

When Jafar says nothing, the woman motions for him to follow her to the back of the room, behind the lace curtain. He makes a note of all the exits, and to his dismay realizes that there are only two: the door from which he came and a staircase leading to the roof. There are no windows.

The woman pushes the curtain aside, and Jafar follows. His first assessment had been correct. He spies two small stools pushed haphazardly to one side, a table perched in the center of the arrangement. On it sits a deck of cards. Jafar stares at them with the eyes of a man who has just been asked to chop off his own limbs and feed them to the dogs. Many rumours have reached his ears throughout the numerous years of his escapades in the kingdom. He's heard tales of magic, of sorcerers dabbling in the black arts to make all their desires reality, of witches with magic cards that hailed from the shores of the Mediterranean Seas from the northeast, cards with the power to foretell the future. The thought of such power makes Jafar's heart tremble with terrible longing. Of course, not all power is created equal, and not all rumours hold truth, no matter how much he may wish it to be so.

The woman sits, and Jafar copies her.

"I am--" the woman begins.

"Nadia," Jafar finishes rather sulkily. "Yes, I know. I am not a fool."

The woman called Nadia purses her lips in disapproval. She arranges her hands neatly in her lap. "No, I never said you were. But I do believe you seek answers, is that not correct? Is that not why you are here? No one comes to me for nothing."

A sudden wave of fatigue washes over Jafar's broken body. Why does he get the feeling that this is all just a crock of nonsense meant to relieve him of his valuables? There _are_ certainly soothsayers in Agrabah, people who say that they can see unseen things, but many are frauds who are simply talented at divesting desperate people out of their possessions. A headache begins to form behind his temples. _Let's get this over with, then._

"What do you require as payment?" he drawls, scratching at his beard. A smart man never accepts services that he cannot afford. Nothing comes for free, and oftentimes the price is far beyond mere gold and jewels. He will not walk right into the jaws of a debt that can never be repaid.

"Oh, we'll worry about that later, won't we?" Nadia chirps happily. Before Jafar can interrupt her, she begins shuffling the deck of cards and lays three face-down on the table. She wastes no time whatsoever, having serviced many men exactly like him, men seeking answers that they do not wish to face. The backs of the cards are light blue, etched with intricate gold designs. They look expensive. _And nonsensical_ , adds the voice in his head.  

Nadia turns the first card, her bracelets clinking delicately together. The card depicts a horned beast holding chains, two figures bound by them at its feet.

"The Devil," Nadia says evenly. "Not at all surprising. It seems you have been enslaved by individuals more powerful than yourself." Jafar resists the temptation to roll his eyes. "And if you are not careful, you will be chained by your own greed in your pursuit of what you seek. It seems you have a choice to make."

"How ludicrous," Jafar snaps, gazing at the card with dislike. "It is merely a piece of paper. Is this what you tell all your... _clients_? You hand them fairy tales spun from nothing to convince them that this farce is real?"

Nadia shoots him a withering look. "I can assure you, this is most definitely not a farce. I speak only what I see, and what I see is what you do not." She turns over the second card. It displays the image of a heart pierced by three swords.

"Very interesting," Nadia muses, her face instantly lighting up and seemingly forgetting that the man before her has just insulted her livelihood to her face. "It seems you have experienced the pain of love's sting. The shadow of self-loathing still follows your every step for what has transpired in the past." Jafar's heart immediately stills. He has nothing, no smart retort on his lips. Nadia's words reach something deep inside him, crushing it with an iron fist and leaving him cold.

He chokes out a weak laugh and slips on a mask of cool indifference and skepticism. "Love, you say? I know nothing of the word. The more you speak, the more I grow tired of your lies. You waste my time, woman. The final card?"

She turns it over. A woman pours water from two bowls, a large star crowning her head. Nadia inclines her head forward, clearly pleased at this development.

"The Star," she says, her eyes glazing over in wonder. "There is hope for you yet--but only if you know how to make the right choice. You will find your purpose if you are able to allow the veil to fall from your eyes and see the truth that stares you in the face."

The ice around his heart turns to red-hot fury. Jafar's fist slams down, pushing the cards off the table and onto the ground. "If you are going to give me nonsensical sayings and cryptic warnings, I'd rather you not speak at all. I am leaving. I will not have you sit there and make a fool of me with your nonsense." Jafar turns his back, ready to storm out, but Nadia's next words stop him, pinning him to where he stands.

"I think you know as well as I do where your answers lie," she says quietly. "This is more than just about the guards that watch you with careful eyes." She pauses, seeing the wildness in Jafar's gaze. "Go to Shirabad. What you seek lies there." Jafar's lips move, but nothing comes out. Thoughts are racing through his mind, but he's not sure which ones to grasp. His heart pounds and his blood boils in a way it has not for years. "Consider carefully what transpired in Shirabad six years ago. You will know the answer once you see it."

And for the first time in his life, this is what finally breaks Jafar. In thirty-two years he has never felt so utterly powerless, so cold with fear and the emptiness of broken promises left unfulfilled. His brain understands, but his heart refuses to believe, to take that final leap to connect the pieces.

That, and he refuses to ever return to Shirabad of his own accord. He decides he would need to be dragged there kicking and screaming, and even then, he'd ensure he arrived dead rather than alive. It is not a place he wishes to revisit, and he realizes with absolute certainly that his recent nightmares are tied to that place. He will not escape them until he faces the past, and that is something he is unwilling to do. Because hope is a traitorous, disgusting word, and it will ruin him in the end. It always does. It already _has_.

"Payment." Jafar chokes out the word with some difficulty. He produces the serpent ring he had stolen from you from somewhere inside his robes. You didn't seem to miss it, and so he had been hoping to sell it in exchange for a meal or two. Now, the metal burns his fingers with the truth. A fluttering sensation swells in his abdomen. He throws the ring before Nadia.

"I don't think so," the seer says, picking it up and placing it back in Jafar's palm. She closes his fingers around it and gives his knuckles a pat. "I think you will find that you will have need of this for later. You will thank me, you'll see."

Jafar can't seem to make his mouth work; his voice is stuck somewhere in his throat.

"How about that lovely parrot of yours?" As if like magic, he is immediately snapped from his reverie. "I'll take him as payment. He seems to be rather clever."

"I will slit your throat from ear to ear, slowly and painfully, if you ever dare to lay your filthy hands on Iago," Jafar deadpans. Nadia grins, nodding. "I will give you...anything _else_ that you like. _Almost_ anything," he amends, recalling the power of his words.

"Then let's leave it at this. You will owe me a favour, should I ever need it." Nadia winks.

"What kind of favour, exactly?"

The woman shrugs. "I don't know. I might not ever need your help. But I must have something."

Jafar wants to say more, but decides against it and turns from the seer, making his way back into the filthy streets in silent approval. He truly considers slitting her throat in broad daylight, for she knows things that she should not. Still, that kind of power could be useful for later, and he's promised himself he wouldn't lay a hand on anyone who wasn't deserving of death. So far, he's been able to keep his bargain for several weeks.

What Jafar sees when the late afternoon light meets his eyes makes him stop dead.

At the end of the road, at the second entrance from the main marketplace square, stand a group of about forty royal guards. Jafar takes a moment to count them in his head, wanting to make certain that he hasn't completely taken leave of his senses. Their gazes are locked on him, and he swears rather colourfully. Iago's warning screech comes a moment too late.

He takes off at break-neck speed, ascending the nearest building in the way that only he knows best. He hurls his body from rooftop to rooftop, his breath coming in heaving gasps. His biggest mistake is not stopping to look in front of him.

He collides with a solid plate of armor, and for a moment, he thinks he has run right into a barrel. But it's not a barrel, and he looks up to meet the imposing gaze of a figure clad in all black. He is not wearing a palace uniform, and only the eyes are visible. Jafar steals a glance to his rear, and he sees similarly clothed figures closing in on him from all sides. The scimitars grasped tightly in their fists are a telltale sign that there is nowhere to run.

Iago is circling erratically overhead, clearly panicked at what is transpiring below.

"Go, you stupid bird, go!" Jafar shouts with all his might. "Leave!" But Iago remains, peering at his master and refusing to take flight until he knows for sure what will become of him.

Unbeknownst to him, one of the black-clad figures snakes toward Jafar and painfully twists his arm from behind. Another figure takes hold of his other arm. There are also two others, carefully watching from a rooftop in the distance.

"Look what we have here," one of the men says. "Agrabah's very own, _Jafar_."

"Cretin!" Jafar snarls. His face is twisted with rage, and he is very aware of the fact that any wrong move could end with his blood spilled on the sandy bricks. This, however, doesn't stop him from punching one of the men holding his arms square in the face as he tries to break free. The man stumbles, surprised, but yet another figure comes forward to take his place and restrain Jafar once more.

"You're in a world of trouble, boy," the same man warns, dark laughter laced in his words.

Jafar spits in his face. It barely misses his eyes. "I have done nothing, nothing deserving of this! You--" A hand covers his mouth.

"Oh, but you have. Shirabad's sultan has a...shall we say, a _bone_ to pick with you. The royal thief was to make sure you were never seen alive again, but she failed, as the sultan knew she would. So we are here to finish the job, and paid handsomely, might I add. Oh, but don't worry," the man hastily adds, noting Jafar's wide eyes at the words "royal thief." "We have made sure to serve an appropriate punishment for her negligence. Think of this as a... _reminder_."

The world folds in on itself, and Jafar has only one thought before a blow lands at the back of his head, shrouding his vision in a blanket of darkness. Iago is already gone before he closes his eyes.


	4. Eyes Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal thief of Shirabad makes some frightening discoveries about the true nature of Jafar's memories, deciding to find him after a chilling warning from a practiced seer. Meanwhile, Jafar has been imprisoned and finally opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter, and it's a monster. I've updated the tags and will continue to do so, so please read them, especially for the chapter after this one. It's likely going to contain some content that may trigger someone, so please always read the updated tags first. This chapter took everything out of me, just because it's so long and so much happens. I apologize for any mistakes; it honestly took forever to edit. Thank you, once again, for all the love that everyone has left on this story so far. I always appreciate every single comment and kudos, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me throughout this crazy ride. Feedback is always appreciated.

After Jafar's fantastic leap from the open window, you had sat steaming, fists curled in indignation at his nerve in leaving you stranded with nowhere to go for the second time in less than a decade.

You had burned with hatred, sitting in the corner of the abandoned building he had procured seemingly from nowhere, a newly-stolen shawl covering your hair and a sharp throbbing at your feet. You barely managed to limp through the marketplace, no thanks to Jafar, in order to take what you required. You had made sure to leave payment in the form of several gold coins, silently slipping through the crowds before the stalls in eerie silence and with all the practice of someone who was made to blend into the shadows. On your way, you had taken the liberty of tucking a few red, shiny apples from a fruit vendor. They are still cold when you arrive back at your temporary refuge, your anger ebbing away in spite of all that has happened.

It's not Jafar's fault, you realize. He doesn't recognize you, and you know that for certain now. When you consider the matter logically, it _has_ been several years since he last saw you, but you would think that the events of all those years ago would make even a small shred of it stay with him.

He is exactly as you remember: dark, hard eyes threaded with the barest drop of softness, a full head of close-cropped curls, and a voice as smooth and venomous as the vicious caress of a snake. You think of his beard, imagining the sensation of it against your fingers, but immediately stop there, your heart like lead. You do not want to run back to him, but there is little choice to be had. It has never been like you to steal, lie and sacrifice yourself for a man, but you suppose it is no different than what you had been ordered to do for years by Shirabad's sultan.

You were expecting to have a very different reaction to coming nose to nose with the man you had spent years protecting, but all you had been able to do was gaze upon him in violent shock, a look of near-reverence on your face as he had swept you up in his arms and away from the dangers of the open desert.

Now, alone with your thoughts, you try to swallow down this feeling in your chest--a trembling so forceful that you know will become your ruin, should you allow it. Your shake your head, clutching your scarlet shawl tightly against your scalp. The sandals left by Jafar are untouched beneath the open window. You know why they were left behind, but they are far too big and make your steps clumsy, so you returned them to where he had left them.

A feminine voice floats down from below, startling you. "I have been seeking you, Grand Redeemer of Shirabad."

You spin in place, your knees almost kissing the ground as you stumble in surprise. You have not heard that title spoken out loud in years, and you tremble, nearly cowering in the implication.

 _Redeemer_. A word equivalent to the title of "thief," but more important-sounding so as to convince the common people that a criminal was not, in fact, employed by the royal palace to do their bidding. You swallow, choking down the bitterness.

A woman appears, seemingly from nowhere, her grey-streaked hair covered by a slip of fabric that is bright turquoise. There are harsh lines etched in her face, but her gaze still holds a kind of beauty that will last well into the late stages of her life. Her eyes are careful, guarded, and they peer at you with unmasked hesitation.

You stand, crossing your arms over your chest. You decide you are ready to spill blood if necessary. You've done it enough times before. "Who are you?"

"Someone who has come to warn you," the woman responds, letting her gaze roam over the tiny room. It's much too poorly decorated for her taste, but she supposes it can't be helped. "Your _lover_ is in danger."

"I'm...sorry?" You stare at her in confusion, then realization snaps your eyes open and your hands to come out in front of you, waving away her words. "My lover? You mean Jafar? He's not my--oh no, he's not my lover. You must be mistaken." Your cheeks burn, and a cat's grin settles over her face.

Your ears perk up at the rustling of wings and continuous cries of "master" that creep closer and closer. A large red parrot dives into the room through the open window and lands on your wrist. You manage to extend your arm at the last second before he lands.

You try to keep the bird contained and on your wrist, but he hops along your arm and onto your shoulder. Your fondness for birds is non-existent despite the sweet demeanor of this particular one. There is no mistaking that incessant squawk; it's Iago, Jafar's shadow and constant companion.

"This one," the woman points, "came to find me early this morning. He knocked over half the items in my shop and shattered a very important artifact before shouting something about his master requiring assistance. Quite intelligent for a screeching nuisance, I have to say."

Panic begins to rise in your throat. Jafar could never be found without Iago. Where one goes, the other closely follows. "How do you know Jafar?" You assess the woman once more, deciding that she can't be that much of a threat. At worst, she's a just a mad woman approaching lunacy and you can just send her on her way.

But Iago...there's no denying that Iago would not be here if Jafar was free to do as he wished.

The woman sighs, an ancient tiredness seeping in her face. "He came to me days ago seeking his fortunes in my cards. He is now missing, as you are no doubt aware."

"Missing," you say, anger rising up again. "He left of his own accord. No one forced him to leave. He can shrivel up and die for all I care." Iago begins playing with the gold beads sewn into the edges of your shawl. He quickly grows bored and playfully scrapes at your earlobe. You try to lean out of reach, but he simply jumps on your chest, shrouding your view in scarlet feathers.

The woman sits on the dusty ground and pins you with a stare. "If you do not hurry, girl, he _will_ die." You blink at her forwardness. "And _when_ he dies, you will wither away until you can meet him again in the hereafter." You lean against the wall. Iago has finally decided to move from your chest and to your other shoulder. He sits quietly, scraping what you believe are supposed to be kisses to your cheek.

"I have no business with that lying scoundrel," you hiss. "If I do hunt him down, it will be to retrieve my ring." You touch your index finger where the gold serpent with the ruby eye once sat. "No one steals what belongs to me. That is all. I do not care what happens to him."

The woman smiles sweetly, poison at the ready. "Ah yes, of course, the ring that a common Shirabad thief gifted to you in a prison cell as he whispered sweet nothings against the shell of your ear. Yes, of course, _that_ ring." A small snort of laughter escapes her as she catches the violent flash of bewilderment ghosting over your features. You allow yourself a quiet gasp, your face burning.

"You are a _seer_." It is not a question. The woman nods.

"I am Nadia," she says. "And you, girl, are correct."

You collapse onto the weathered table by the wall. Iago begins whistling a cheerful tune as you sit. Seers are rare in any kingdom, but a _true_ seer? Even rarer still.

You have no desire to conceal anything from this woman. You have only just met, and you are certain she already knows whatever secrets you would try to hide from her. "He doesn't know who I am," you whisper, hating the despair in your own voice. "How can I go to a man who doesn't know who I am? How can I _chase_ such a man? It is pointless and pathetic."

Nadia takes hold of your wrist. "You listen to me girl, and you listen well. It is _not_ pointless. Have you ever considered that there is magic in these lands that can make a shell of even a thousand men in a mere instant?" She pauses, lacing her fingers with yours as she begins to speak her next words. "Jafar has been imprisoned by a curse. It is a powerful magic. On the first night of your twenty-fifth year, a blanket of fog settled over his memories, and he has forgotten who you are despite being able to recall every detail of the events that occurred in that Shirabad jail." You remember the moments of split-second recognition washing over his face that disappeared just as quickly. _No_. This cannot be, and yet it makes more sense than Jafar simply forgetting you had ever existed. Nadia continues. "He remembers everything, and I mean _everything_ , yet he is doomed to forever wander the earth searching for a woman whom he will never be able to recognize even if she appears right before his very eyes. He is not _permitted_ to remember."

Your mouth goes dry, your eyes unseeing. A quaking fear settles over you that shakes everything you are. Should you trust this woman? You see no reason to do so, no reason why a stranger such as her would be willing to help you nor care for what ails you, but you also see no reason she would lie. All her words are true, and you know without a doubt that she is a seer. No one could know so much without personally knowing Jafar, and even if she did know him, you know with certainty that he would rather leap face-first into a pit of vipers than divest even the smallest details of his personal business.

"How do I break this...curse?"

Nadia's lips tighten into a thin line. "You don't. You pray that he has the brain cells to latch on to his fully-functioning memories and recognize you. Alternatively, you may either kill or seriously maim the one who placed it on him in the first place."

"And who might that be?"

"Think hard, girl. I think you know."

You do, and you wish you didn't. You think of the sultan and the orders he had given you, orders you knew you would never be able to fulfill, and suddenly the truth spits in your face. You recall the brief gleam of an executioner's blade rising and falling, your mind swimming in a thousand tarnished memories.

"What do you owe him?" you ask evenly, your mind shifting to the many reasons this woman would want to rescue a man as threatening as Jafar. Still, you wouldn't put it past him to strike fear into a middle-aged woman over any matter of triviality.

Nadia simply laughs. "What you mean is, what does he owe _me_." You raise a brow at this. "I read his cards, he still owes me payment. It's that simple. I can't collect if his body is buried six feet below the sand." You want to smile at her attempt at brevity, but the thought of Jafar still and unmoving in a shallow grave makes you want to vomit. Nadia squeezes your fingers.

"I am going to get that ring back and then I will return to Agrabah," you say, refusing to meet the seer's eyes. She tips your chin back, forcing you to look at her.

"Whatever you say, girl. But fine, go retrieve the ring. Speaking of which..." She trails off, spying Iago softly snoring upright on your shoulder. The boredom of this exchange must have near killed him. "Whatever you do, you must retrieve that serpent ring at all costs. Do you understand me? It is imperative that it rests once more on your finger."

"Why? It's just a piece of jewellery," you lie. It's not, not to you at, least.

"It is not just a piece of jewellery!" Nadia places her hands on your shoulders, shaking you back and forth and waking Iago in the process. He gives an annoyed cry, stretching his wings and making for the sky beyond the window. "Promise you will get that ring from him. Promise me. Break all the bones in his hands if you must, but you _will_ retrieve it from him." You nod, alarmed by the sudden change in tone.

A question forms on your tongue, but you are too afraid to speak it into existence. Nadia reads your thoughts before you decide whether you want the answer or not.

"Yes, he is still alive, for the time being. But you must hurry. Make for the desert. The bird knows the way."

You sigh deeply, remembering what you endured in that same desert mere days before. _Be brave_ , you tell yourself. _He can look after himself, but he will not survive without you._

 "Listen," Nadia says with all the gentleness of a woman speaking to a broken child. "It is not my place to pry into matters that do not concern me, and I will not, but I know that you have endured much." She glances at your feet, wrapped in white linen. Dark stains seep through the fabric. "I am sorry that you must go back to such a place, but if there was any other way, I would not be here with this warning. Do what you will with what I have told you. It is your decision to make. Whatever you do, I hope you will be able to live with that choice."

She bends low, touching her hands to your feet, and then something beyond the realm of possibility occurs. You feel your flesh begin to knit together beneath the fabric, the aching throb instantly vanishing, as if it had never been there to begin with. You stare at this woman--Nadia--in befuddled wonder, trying to understand how this can be real.

"You are a seer," you say, voice empty and shaking. "But how--"

Nadia grins in a rather conspiratorial manner. "I'm not about to reveal _all_ my secrets. Now go, girl. He will wake soon. Better he wakes to you than the prison guards."

***

Jafar feels like the biggest imbecile in all the kingdoms. Back in the marketplace, he had failed to see that the plainclothes guards melting into the crowd with careful movements were not Agrabah guards at all, but the treacherous royal guards of Shirabad. These were the same men who had pursued him on the rooftops high above the city, concealing the inky black uniform of their true kingdom. He should have noticed, because he has dealt with these fools many years prior when he was just a boy in a city where the sultan ruled with an iron fist and tempted his people with the power of their freedom.

The cell he lays in is dark, quiet and slightly damp, making Jafar retch in disgust. But the worst part is not the cold or the bruises painting his forehead black and blue.

No, the worst of it is that Jafar had promised himself he would never allow anyone to make him feel this powerless again, yet here he sits, subdued like vermin awaiting extermination.

It would be comical if not for the fact that this situation is an exact copy of what he had endured less than a decade ago in the Shirabad jail that sat on the western-most edge of the palace. He's not sure where he is and he doesn't care. He will not cower like some animal. He will survive, as he always does, and then he will slaughter every last fool who has dared to cross him.

His face throbs painfully, his forehead exceptionally tender. He's lost count of how many hours or days he's been in this darkened cell, but the guards come to taunt him every hour on the hour, beating him as they try to crush his spirit. He fights back, always, but fight too hard, and he knows that they will kill him. Why they do not hurry and simply drive a dagger through his heart is beyond his understanding.

He touches a finger to his lips, split in two by the guards' most recent experiments. One man had made a most lamentable attempt at stepping on his face and snapping his nose under his boot, but Jafar had twisted his ankle with a satisfying crunch. The blade to his lips had been a parting gift for his trouble, but it had been worth it.

Footsteps echo on the stone staircase leading down into the prison. They are faint, tapping almost silently on the stones two by two. He strains his ears. The steps continue to approach. Are the guards already returning? Surely it hasn't yet been an hour.

The door opens, and he is afraid that his suspicions are correct. A guard clothed in black enters the cramped chamber, a cloak wrapped around his face, concealing his identity. Like the others back in Agrabah, only his eyes are visible.

The figure approaches the cell, and Jafar tightly grips the steel bars, ready to fight for his life once more. He begins to notice something odd about this particular guard.

His frame is small, almost tiny in comparison to all the others, with subtle curves hidden under the many layers of black fabric. The guard pauses at the cage-like gate, and Jafar takes note of his eyes before he can dare breathe a word.

 _Those eyes_. The richest, deepest blue, the colour of raging, stormy seas. The cloak falls to the floor, and Jafar is met with the only saving grace that the gods have deemed him worthy of. You hold your head high, burning holes into his bewildered gaze. The flickering stubs of the candles in the lanterns bring some warmth to his face, but it does nothing to hide the injuries that have been dealt to him. If he notices your lack of a limp, he keeps quiet.

You try not to grimace as you take in the bruises dotting his face like stars, his bottom lip cut cleanly in a jagged line. Crimson spots bleed through his tunic, and his usual brown robes of a thief are nowhere to be seen.

You try so incredibly hard to mask the emotion that this man brings to the surface.

You look to the open doorway. "We don't have much time. We need to go."

"Where is Iago?" he asks, following your gaze.

"Distracting the guards."

He gives the barest of nods, too stunned to speak. His features quickly recover the stony expression he's usually so fond of wearing. "So when were you going to tell me that you had been planning to drive a dagger through me when my back was turned?"

You swallow, hating that he knows and hating yourself more for not telling him in the first place. You don't ask how he knows, but your expression gives everything away. He laughs bitterly, as if he has just heard something quite amusing. "Jafar, I don't know what you've heard, but I--"

"I'll tell you exactly what I've heard, you lying wretch. " He enunciates each word carefully, making sure that you are able to hear the venom in each and every one. "You have been given orders by Shirabad's sultan to spill my blood and bring my head back to that that crazed lunatic. Yes, the guards do so like to talk when they're busy trying to break my spine." You try to interject, but he rages on. "Why should I go with you when you have done nothing but lie? What is that snake offering you that is worth killing me for?" His voice booms in the cell, the loudest you have ever heard it. "I know how you people see me, expendable and worthless, easy to toss aside. But I will not allow you to think you have outsmarted me, little girl. I will not allow you to--"

You suddenly remember Nadia's words and reach a hand between the bars, grasping at Jafar's tunic. "The ring. I need the ring."

Jafar looks as if you have kneed him in the groin. His mouth falls open. "Is that really why you came all the way here, for a ridiculous trinket you could buy at the market for a few coins? Not that you have need to go to the market, what with your golden leash held by--"

"Give me the ring."

" _No_." He stares, unblinking, daring you to relent and look away first.

You grab the fabric of his tunic more forcefully, ramming his face flush against the bars in the process. "I said, give me the damned ring." This, apparently, is enough.

He clenches his jaw and goes to pry your fingers from his tunic, throwing the ring at your feet. You take it carefully and fit it securely back on your index finger.

A wave of quiet washes over the prison, and you are thinking of apologizing for shouting at him when Jafar looks at you in a way that turns your insides to liquid. This time, his own arm squeezes through the bars, hand grasping for your face.

"Look at me," he says, his voice deathly quiet. When you try to turn away, he grips your cheek hard, forcing your gaze to him. "Look at me, woman!"

This time you do, the order in his voice snapping your eyes to his, eyes forged from blades and darkness. He is staring at you as if he has seen the fires of hell and the splendor of paradise all at once, etched neatly on the surface of your skin.

***

_For one full year, the Grand Redeemer of Shirabad has spent all her waking moments trying to earn the trust of one of the kingdom's most despised criminals. It became an almost frenzied obsession as you devised ways to convince him that you were not like them and would never be._

_You had first glimpsed his face on the eve of the summer solstice, being lead away by guards clad in pitch-black uniforms. Two guards flanked his sides, holding him upright. He walked with his head held high, unashamed, his face burning with hatred. He was beautiful, you noticed, with dark hair, striking skin kissed by the sun, and a full beard that could make even the servant girls up in the kitchens gladly lift their skirts for him with a look. This should have been your first warning._

_You watched, curious as to what manner of crime such a man could have possibly committed. Over the next several weeks, you learned his name--Jafar--and armed with only that single scrap of knowledge, you scoured the palace in search of what would be your eventual ruin._

_After further investigation, you had found he was being held in the western-most prison near the palace, the prison meant only for the most dangerous and deranged prisoners. You had asked yourself several times if your curiosity and boredom were strong enough to warrant such a forbidden detour, but you decided they were and made for the jail, though you were barred access the moment you approached the threshold of the building._

_It had taken weeks of begging and pouting at the sultan, who enjoyed his vice-like grip around even the most trivial of matters. The queen, finally seeing your increasing desperation and favouring you among all others, interceded on your behalf, and your request was finally granted, allowing you to come and go as you pleased much to the dismay of the prison guards._

_When your eyes locked with Jafar's in that cell for the first time, you almost wished you were back outside, away from his steely gaze and poisoned smile. Obscenities began to fall from his lips almost at once, taunting you as he shouted perverse things, hoping to provoke you. His voice held the smoothness of the finest honey in the kingdom, laced with an unsuspecting bitterness. It is that voice that grasped at the strings holding up your heart._

_He had stopped shouting once you had come into the rare light of the flickering lanterns, and upon realizing your sex, simply spat at you to get out, sparing you not even a glance._

_The months ahead consisted of you sneaking into his cell at the rotation of the guards. You memorized their patterns, the hours of the day in which they went to find their replacements and make reports to their superiors. You wasted no time in rushing to the prison, scraps of still-warm food from the kitchens tucked into your robes. The guards were not permitted to feed Jafar, and even if they tried, they would only do so after taunting him relentlessly. You had come to know that Jafar would rather turn to dust than accept anything from such vipers._

_Each and every day, it was the same. Jafar rejected everything you held out to him, and you watched as his once-glowing face withered into nothing, displaying the sharp points of his jaw and his cheeks sinking in on themselves._

_You don't know when it all changed, when Jafar decided you were not, in fact, trying to poison him. It was like gaining the trust of an abused, frightened animal. Each time you went to see him, you kept your hands spread out in front of you, showing that you meant no harm._

_When the months turned into years, he became used to you, though he barely spoke, only using his voice to ask when you would return. He began to watch you in an almost careful manner, in the way a hunter would approach his prey, but there was much more in his gaze that you did not yet understand._

_Finally growing tired of his sulky demeanor, you decided to pick the lock at his door (the sultan would allow you the keys only when he was buried beneath the desert sands), and would sit in silence with him inside the cell, the door always wide open. The first time you had done this, he gave you a pitying look that confirmed to you his belief that you had taken leave of all your senses. He never tried to run, perhaps sensing that what was at stake was more than his own life. You never tried to ask why this mattered._

_This quickly became routine, and if he despised you for it, he never breathed a word, his silence louder than any words he could ever hope to speak._

_On hot, humid nights--and that was most of them--you sat side by side in the cell, sweat sticking to his brow and his head on your shoulder as you spun fantastic tales of beggars, thieves and princesses in far off kingdoms. You wove for him tales of magic and daring and power, tales meant to whisk him away into a world where there were no prisons or pain._

_And each night was the same: in the hour in which you murmured to him your stories, he always fell asleep, his body close to yours and his breathing steady. Sometimes, he laced his fingers wordlessly with yours as you spoke, falling asleep much in the same manner. You always let him._

_He was always alone when he woke. Three years in, and you barely knew him save for the fact that he was a prisoner with an undetermined fate. It was only during the fourth year of his sentence that he finally began to find his voice--his true voice--and what you discovered was rather delightful._

_He was rude, abrasive, and dripping with undisguised sarcasm, though he never stopped waiting expectantly for your tales or reaching for your hand during moments when he thought you wouldn't notice. He was kind to you, knowing exactly when to curb the malice in his words. He knew his place, as did you._

_Today, the urge to see him runs deeply through you. When the guards are away reporting to those who will relieve them for the next hour, you slip silently into the prison and into Jafar's cell._

_At first, you think he's asleep, but he's really peering at you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze suspicious as you work a pick into the large brass lock. You shut the door as quietly as you can and sit beside him, inclining your head as acknowledgment._

_"What is this?" he asks, brow raised. "Do you do this for all your prisoners?"_

_"Only the handsome ones," you say, feeling rather bold tonight. This earns you a rare smile that cannot be concealed, even in the near-darkness of the cell._

_For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the presence of the other. Jafar will never say it out loud, but you know he is grateful for the company of someone who isn't there to laugh at his misfortunes or beat him into submission. You feel his hand reach for your own, your fingers lacing immediately with his._

_"What are your plans for tomorrow, girl?" He still refuses to use your name, though there's no doubt he knew it from the moment he was dragged through the palace gates years ago. He doesn't look at you, but his calloused fingers are warm, and his thumb begins to brush back and forth over your own._

_"Why? Do you plan to take me on a fantastic afternoon adventure?"_

_His grin returns, all cat-like and hazy._

_"It's my birthday tomorrow." Jafar ceases his caresses._

_"Planning on getting into some trouble, then?" He pauses, considering. "If I may be so bold, Grand Redeemer, how many years will you be celebrating?"_

_"Twenty-one."_

_Jafar nods. Had had guessed that he had a few years over you. Five, then, just as he had heard._

_"Well then, make sure you celebrate well." You wonder to yourself what "celebrating well" could possibly mean to Jafar, and you suddenly think of the nobles getting drunk off cheap wine and decadently-decorated women. Somehow, you don't think Jafar to be this type._

_He smiles tightly. It doesn't quite reach his eyes._

_"I **will** return, you know."_

_His response is frosty as always. "Frankly, I do not care if you do or do not."_

_You shift yourself to face him, still feeling the weight of his fingers firmly grasped in your own. Drawing yourself to your knees, you lift your free hand to rest on his cheek, his beard rough to the touch. Jafar closes the space between you and presses a lingering, soft kiss to your own cheek. Your blood boils in your ears._

_It is not the first time that you have witnessed such displays of affection from Jafar. He is a man who does not use his words, but rather his actions, surprising you every time his hands brush the hair from your eyes or land to rest on the small of your back._

_But what he does next is new, so new, in fact, that you are sure you are walking a thin line between dreams and reality._

_When he pulls away, he regards you in a way that sends terrifying, delicious shivers down your spine. He is dazed, as if being woken from a carefully crafted fantasy of his own making. Before he can react, you capture his lips with your own, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He is unblinking, lips parted and barely moving as he draws back to gaze at you, his frantic heartbeat thudding loudly against the silence of the jail. He rasps out your name, and he knows he has fallen with no chance of getting back up._

_Jafar covers the hand resting on his cheek and lifts it reluctantly, pressing a small kiss to your knuckles. Your hand drops, and you find a new home for it on his thigh, but not for long. He does not break eye contact with you as he reaches for that hand and places it firmly **between** his thighs, his breath warm on your skin. A fresh wave of longing floods you, an ache starting to grow within your core. _

_"Like what you do to me, girl?" he murmurs against the skin of your neck._

_You love it, actually. Love it so much that you dare to imagine what it would feel like to have him plunged deeply inside you, filling you as his name rolls off your tongue, over and over and over. "I can't," you say instead, agonized, breaking the spell of rapturous lust he holds over you. "You know I can't."_

_"I know," is all he says. You remove your hand, nearly whimpering at the loss of his hardness pressed against your palm._

_Jafar gently tugs on a lock of your hair, and you don't have time to question it as he pins a kiss to your forehead. He closes his eyes, relishing in this one precious, forbidden luxury, the only luxury he has had in years._

_Before you reluctantly take your leave of him, Jafar slips a ring of cool metal upon your index finger. The ring is made of pure gold, fashioned into the curve of a serpent. Its tiny, ruby eye glitters in the darkness._

_"Where did you get this?"_

_"I borrowed it," and the twinkle in his eyes tells you it was most certainly not borrowed. You fix him with a stare._

_"What? I assure you, the guard I took it from won't be missing it. Consider it an early birthday gift from me to you. I know the stolen trinkets of a thief may not mean much to you," he adds hurriedly, "but I--"_

_"Thank you," you say, meaning it with all your heart. "It's lovely."_

_He nods. He never stops looking at you, even as you begin climbing the staircase._

_***_

_It's sunrise when you creep to Jafar's cell the next morning, taking full advantage of the fact that most of the city is just barely starting to wake. When you enter the darkened room, you find that his cell is empty. Your heart tumbles from your chest, cracking on the stones. A momentary panic takes hold of you._

_He can't have been released. So then, where have they taken him?_

_You sprint from the prison, your black cloak snapping in the wind behind you. As you run, passing dazed servants and disgruntled merchants, you see it, and you stop breathing then and there._

_There, atop the highest tower in the kingdom, stand two guards, the sultan and his queen, and the palace executioner leading Jafar to the wooden block where his blood will spill, painting the bricks scarlet. The fear that shakes you is something entirely new, and you need to brace your hands on the railings to keep yourself standing. You take off immediately._

_A crowd begins to amass beneath the tower, curiosity and glee at seeing the kingdom's most wanted criminal on his knees, ready to meet his maker._

_"Stop!" you scream, ascending the marble staircase, heaving. A murmur floats through the assembled crowd, but they let you pass. "Please, stop, stop this at once!"_

_The guards who had mere moments ago lead Jafar to the executioner's block rush forward to take hold of you, and you can see Jafar attempt very poorly to turn and look at you upon hearing your voice--just one final time. His eyes finally find you, and they are hard. He doesn't give away a single sliver of fear, but you know him well. If he must die, he will die with honor, begging for nothing and no one._

_"What is the meaning of this?" Shirabad's sultan looks you over, a hardness in his voice. He is not much older than Jafar, and wears robes of emerald and gold. His queen stands demurely at his side in matching colours, her gaze fixed firmly to the floor._

_You struggle against the guards at your sides, Jafar's name ripped from your throat in jagged screams. "Please, please don't!" you shout, beginning to weep in earnest, tears staining your reddened cheeks. "Please have mercy, I beg of you, have mercy!"_

_"He is a criminal!" the sultan cries, pointing a finger directly at you. "And he shall be punished accordingly! You would do well to stay in your place, **Grand Redeemer**."_

_"No, please, please!" You cry and beg and scream with all you are, but it has no effect. Jafar will die, and you will be forced to watch._

_The blade of the executioner's sword rises high in the golden sunlight._

_"Jafar, Jafar!" His name is the only word you know, and you scream it over and over like a prayer, hoping that someone or something will save him from this horrid fate._

_And then just as the blade is about to slice cleanly through his neck, you manage to rip yourself from the guard's mighty grip and throw your body over Jafar, shielding him from the blade coming to claim his life, throwing him into an eternal slumber. You close your eyes against the tears, waiting for the blow that will undoubtedly come at any moment. If you have to die, at least it's like this._

_But the blow never comes. You hear Jafar's heavy breath rasp out against your ear. The crowd below has gone silent._

_It is the sultan who speaks next."Let him go." You're not sure you heard correctly._

_"But my sultan," the executioner begins, "he has--"_

_"Silence! You will do as you are told." The executioner bows low and cuts away the rope binding Jafar's wrists together. You are still gripping him hard when the two guards from earlier come to tear you away from him. The executioner grabs at the back of Jafar's tunic._

_"I **will** come back for you," Jafar promises, his voice laced with panic. "I promise, I will find you, I--"_

_But you don't hear his next words, for the crack of a whip snaps hard against your back, then again and again, Jafar's screams echoing in the morning sun as the world fades to black. You don't notice the eyes of the sultan devouring your figure with his eyes as he expels Jafar from the palace and from the kingdom of Shirabad._

***

Jafar still grips your cheek when he speaks your name for the first time since glimpsing you on the desert path, your feet bruised and broken. It is the same name he breathed against your lips countless nights in a Shirabad jail six years ago.

There is no warning trill from Iago when Shirabad's sultan enters the chamber, his hands grabbing your hips from behind and pulling you roughly away from the cell.

"We meet again, _Grand Redeemer_."

Jafar's answering roar echoes off the walls.


	5. In The Viper's Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rendered powerless and stripped even of his voice, Jafar watches as the Grand Redeemer of Shirabad is ripped away from him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest, I'm not completely happy with this chapter. I rewrote it so many times, and the result is something that I'm somewhat satisfied with. I think it's just the fact that the last chapter was so fast-paced, and so much happened that this one doesn't feel as good as the last one (to me, at least). I included everything that I had planned to, so that's not really the problem either. Regardless, here it is. I've updated the tags accordingly, so please have a look at those before you read. One of the things I wanted to achieve with this chapter is to offer a glimpse into Jafar's future if he ends up making all the wrong choices (And he will! Keep an eye out for that promised sequel.). Once again, thank you for all your love and support. Feedback is always more than welcome. All of your love for this story makes writing worth it. ❤️

The trek through the desert had been as long and arduous as you remembered it. With Nadia's assistance, you had managed to secure a camel to aid you in the impossible task laid before you. Any scrap of assistance thrown your way was most welcome; you cared not who or where it came from so long as it lead you to your destination, a wasteland of sand and stone spread eternally before you like the seas.

Sleep escaped you each and every night. You pushed forward, relentless, stopping only in the nearby oasis towns for food and water, and to ensure that Iago was fed and well-rested. The bird's usual chattering had quickly become a rarity, silence meeting your few attempts at making him speak. He perked up only when you were in danger of being frozen alive in the night's biting chill, or to urge you forward when he presumably decided you were not moving quickly enough.

You nearly fled on foot when you had approached the iron gates leading into Shirabad's winding streets.

As much as you wished you didn't, you remembered Shirabad well, the royal palace rising from the city like a finely bejeweled entrapment. You could already imagine the poverty swirling about the streets like a thick fog, and if the glittering facade of the palace was meant to hide this fact, it was doing a very poor job.

Jafar would not be contained within the very same prison he had served out his sentence six years ago. That would have made this fool's errand much too easy. Instead, you approached the heavy brass doors of the palace, dodging royal guards with the precise movements of a woman who had spent years descending upon the city, still as death.

A cold sweat clung to your skin as you navigated halls cloaked in emerald and gold, your knees trembling and breath heavy as you recalled the horrors that had taken place here. At one point, you had spied the silver gleam of the execution tower as you forced your body over a balcony, and felt the weakness in your knees double ten-fold.

This would not be easy, if only for the nightmares this place stirred within you.

You finally found what you were looking for: an inconspicuous-looking door, tucked away in the palace's lower levels, plain as any of the commoners' robes back in the streets of Agrabah. You picked at the lock--a very simple contraption, to your delight--and entered. Two paths stretched before you, both melting into darkness. You kept to the right, your steps hushed and hurried in the stillness. There was little time to linger about.

Brahim, Shirabad's Sultan, had done everything in his power to ensure your life would never be worth living when he had bestowed upon you the royal title that would change everything. You had done much for him as Grand Redeemer, savoring the pleasures of being treated as a human being for the first time in exchange for your services. This had ranged from stealing back items of little value for the officials on the High Council, and later, chasing down treasures found only in the stories of myth. The latter often caused you to return to your Sultan empty-handed, and it was only because of his queen that you had escaped punishment, each and every time. You barely remembered that woman's face, swallowing down the anger settling into your stomach like needles.

You pressed on, infiltrating the vast network of tunnels beneath this cage of a place, artfully crafted of never-ending chains.

It was rather laughable how you always seemed to find yourself at the mercy of men who made it their business to subdue the women in their presence. From the palace guards, to the merchants who would have gladly taken all your limbs for even looking at their carts filled with goods, it was always the same. The Sultan's orders and the threat of what he might do was a vise around your freedom that made you think twice before daring to slip away in the night.

Jafar's face, shadowed by the whispers of his nightmares, began to take shape in your mind as you walked along the path. He had you at his mercy too, bound by the calloused touch of his hands and the warmth of his lips against yours. _This is different_ , you chided yourself. _He is different from those men_.

Now, in the near-darkness of the chamber which holds Jafar, as you feel Brahim's hands splayed over your body, you finally understand, and ice instantly coats the inside of your lungs. You think of how easy it had been to gain access to this place--how _stupidly_ easy--and how simple it had been to convince the Sultan of your desires all those years ago. Everything had been orchestrated, from beginning to end, culminating in this one final moment, here and now.

The bastard wanted to see how far you would go, what manner of atrocities you would commit to save the life of one man, and not just any man. Easily a scheme meant to keep you firmly tucked beneath Brahim's thumb as you indulged his every whim. For what purpose, you can only guess.

What you do know, however, is that whatever interest Brahim had taken in you, it was an interest born of a frenzied obsession. The very same obsession that had driven you throw yourself head-first into dangers beyond your understanding all those years ago--all for the mere chance at glimpsing Jafar's face in the darkness.

The crucial difference is that power fuels the Sultan's deeds. Nothing more, nothing less.

But it is love which has always fuelled you, to a nearly maddening degree, as you remained by Jafar's side through it all. Your fists curl into balls at your side, the injustice of it sinking in.

Jafar's eyes sit on your ring, and he may as well be burning it to ash, for the flames in his gaze burn high. And then, ever so slowly, he glances at your face, lips parted and unmoving, his nostrils flared.

His stare turns glassy, and something in him breaks. He is gripping the bars hard enough to leave indents in his skin. His mouth moves, wanting to say something yet not knowing what, but no words come out.

The same recognition that had washed over his features back in Agrabah as he had tended to you returns. This time, it is permanent and unwavering.

He remembers. _He remembers_.

He wants to run to you, wants to bury his face in the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, to crush you in an embrace so tight that you feel it in every crevice of your bones. Instead he stands there, gaze like stone as he watches Shirabad's Sultan brush his thumb over your cheek, his breath hot at your ear.

"Take your hands off her before I break each and every one of your fingers." Jafar releases his grip on the bars and makes to lean against the wall of the cell, forcing every muscle in his body to relax as he slips on a mask of quiet indifference. He decides there is not much difference between this and choking down poison of his own accord.

Brahim laughs, low and ominous. "Do you plan to do so by glaring me to my death?" The Sultan's hand shifts on your hip, steadily creeping lower. You desire nothing more than to shatter his skull with your fist, but you do nothing, reminding yourself that Jafar is caged like cattle with nowhere to run. You force yourself to breathe, counting to five in your head with every breath.

You make the mistake of stealing a glimpse at the Sultan, the room spinning as you do. He is as you remember him, having not changed much at all throughout the years. His smile is lined with razors, an emerald turban sitting on his head, white stubble dotting his chin--the only indication of the mounting years. You are desperate to remain standing upright, to not allow this monster to see the fear swimming in your eyes.

"This girl is absolutely wasted on you," Brahim breathes. He takes hold of your arm and clutches you against his side. "She may be cut from the same cloth as you, may be born of thievery and scum, but her value is something that you could never understand."

Shadows dance upon Jafar's face, his lips twitching at the corners. He still leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Had that cell door been open, the Sultan's blood would already be splattered all over the brick.

 _He's trying to protect you_ , you think. That stupid fool is trying to protect you, forcing down any sliver of emotion. You ignore the fluttering in your chest, unsure whether its presence is due to Jafar's efforts or the blackened fear rushing through you.

"You would do well to mind your words," Jafar says evenly, eyes never leaving the Sultan's hand, low on your hip. He imagines severing it from his arm and relishing in his cries of pain. "You have no reason to want the girl. It was me who you forced to the execution tower, was it not? It is me whom you despise."

"Is it now? Are you sure? Because if I remember correctly it was she--" Brahim pulls on your arm roughly, making you stumble, "--it was she who endured a very public whipping at your expense. You _were_ freed, after all."

It is here that the calm on Jafar's face twists into something devastating, so devastating, in fact, that you think he might walk right though the bars and choke the Sultan directly to the afterlife. But he does no such thing, and the calm returns as soon as you blink.

Brahim notices the split-second of emotion and grins. "Growing soft, are we Jafar? It seems that the years spent in that jail with this one has taken away your stomach. What happened to the hardened criminal leaving bodies at every turn? You would do well to remember your place." Jafar holds his head high, his patience tested. "And your place is in the streets, riddled with disease and rotting away like the vermin you are. It may have been a mercy to have killed you back then when you were still on your knees."

You think wistfully of the blade strapped discreetly to your thigh, itching to wrap your fingers around it. If only you could get to it, if only you could distract this fool long enough to retrieve it. You have never needed anything but your fists until this day, but the feeling of the bastard's hands on you, his nerve at daring to think you belong to anyone but yourself has you seeing red.

"You so love to hear yourself speak." Jafar laughs, taking measured steps back towards the bars. "Perhaps if you stopped to stay quiet long enough you would understand that you cannot make anyone bow before a snivelling idiot such as yourself."

Brahim steps forward, hand still painfully gripping your arm. _The blade_ , you think. You must get the blade.

"I think you fail to understand, Jafar. You see, I have long known of your...perverse obsession with _my_ Grand Redeemer. It is you who are to blame for your situation. If it had been a matter of simple thievery, I would have never sent my guards to hunt you down like the animal you are. I am only protecting what is mine." You struggle against Brahim's grip, hating that you understand the meaning in his words and hating even more the fact that you have been so naive. His lips meet with the side of your neck, and the only reason you do not crush all the bones in his body is because you are sure Jafar will die for it.

Jafar knows that should he see the torment of hell upon his death, this is exactly what he imagines it to look like. He grinds his teeth, momentarily closing his eyes to stop the fierce pounding in his ears. "You are nothing but incompetent swine."

"Incompetent? At least I am man enough to take what I desire."

Jafar inhales sharply, counting in his head, much like you had mere moments before. He cannot wait to twist a blade through this man's chest. "And at least _I_ am man enough to understand that I do not need brute force to bed a woman who shows no interest in me." There it is, the truth. The truth you wish was anything but. "At least I am not vile enough to--and pardon my _rudeness_ \--stick what's left of my shriveled manhood where it does not belong."

You are certain that the rudeness was very much intended.

"You pillaged and sent an entire kingdom to ruin over mere lust," Jafar continues in his fine, honeyed voice, paying no mind to Brahim's rage that is painted over his face like a storm.

"Men have invaded empires for much less," the Sultan remarks. "If a man is unhappy, then his kingdom is unhappy. Only through action can greatness be achieved."

You suddenly think of Brahim's queen, likely trapped in a loveless marriage for the sake of convenience, riddled with politics and treachery. You know this to be true, for you have witnessed this very "tradition" sweep over kingdoms even greater than Shirabad. You wonder if Brahim had taken the liberty of disposing of his queen the moment he realized she was of no use to him other than to secure his throne--and perhaps the thrones of others.

"You speak like a madman." Jafar's voice rings through the chamber, clear as a bell. "With every word that comes out of your mouth I become more and more convinced that all these years as ruler have only served to support some very intricate delusions in that empty head of yours."

An idea begins to take shape in your mind. You press your thighs together, feeling the point of the dagger hidden beneath your robes and hoping that the friction will be enough to loosen it from where it sits. You feel the blade move slightly, but it's not enough. Jafar catches your eye, his gaze widening the tiniest increment, understanding what you're trying to do. His head moves ever so subtly from side to side, telling you no. You widen your eyes in return, completely ignoring his pleading expression.

"You will never understand. You are not Sultan, you are nothing. You were born into nothing, and you will live the rest of your life as nothing. My people depend on me, whereas you--"

"Your people depend on you, and you have marched them straight into poverty!" You stop the movement of your thighs at once, jumping at the sound of Jafar's roar. "There has been no food, no clean drinking water, no possible means of survival in Shirabad for the common people, not for over a decade, and you mean you tell me you do this because you _care_ about your people? You have led Shirabad to ruin, and now you may watch as it burns to ashes under your abysmal rule!"

You can only stand speechless at Jafar's words. Any interjection you may have wished to voice dies on your tongue, his bitterness echoing off the walls. Bitterness at having a life filled with nothing and no one who cared whether he lived or died.

You begin to shift your weight once more, furiously rubbing your legs together, your only focus on that damned blade. Why on earth had you thought that hiding it there would be a good idea?

The dagger clatters to the ground a few inches from your feet. Ripping your arm away from Brahim's grip, you leap to retrieve it, moving with such ferocity that Jafar curses at your daring--or perhaps, more likely, what he believes to be stupidity.

Just as you turn, ready to slice the sharpened blade across the Sultan's face, Brahim raises an arm and motions to Jafar's cell. The door swings open of its own accord, as if pulled open by the strength of a thousand men. A fierce wind whips around your hair, seemingly from nowhere, and before you can question what is happening, Jafar is raised high into the air, his body pulled taut by invisible strings.

"I would be very careful if I were you, _dearest_."

You watch, drowning in slow horror, as a pulsing, red glow envelops Jafar's body, immobilizing him.

Brahim, Sultan of Shirabad, has magic.

The dagger in your hand clatters to the ground, your eyes quickly scanning the room for the source of this magic. Could it be a jinni? _No_ , you think. You would have known years ago if such a deadly weapon had come into Brahim's possession, as you would have been the one to deliver it to him. Then what, where is it coming from? You have no time to speculate.

You stare at Jafar, dazed and struggling against this unexpected display of sorcery.

"What are you doing?" you cry, finally finding your voice. "Let him go, you have to let him go!" Before you can stop yourself, your fists are beating wildly against Brahim's chest, begging for mercy where you know there is none. He gestures at you, and you fly across the room, your body like a rag doll as your back collides with the open door of the cell.

"I don't _have_ to do anything, wretch. I see that the vermin has rubbed off on you."

"Please," you groan, struggling to lift your head. "He has committed no crime." _And so history repeats itself_ , you think darkly.

"His crime," Brahim says slowly, drawing out his words, "was believing that a woman I had set my sights on could ever belong to him. What is born in Shirabad, stays in Shirabad. And by extension, with me."

Your eyes are slits, every part of you aching as you take in the sight of Jafar enveloped in a thick blanket of magic, helpless and stripped of any advantage he may have had. You're certain he would be shouting curses and obscenities had he been free to do so.

Grey, curling smoke begins to rise from his wrists, burning through the thin fabric of his tunic. Bones crack and snap, a strangled cry escaping his throat, and you are sure Brahim has snapped his neck. Your knees turn to rubber, panic forming at not knowing what's been broken or even if he's still alive.

"You see, Grand Redeemer, make one misstep, and I will shatter every bone in his body, one by one, before your very eyes. Come with me, do as I ask, and he may survive for longer yet." With a flick of his wrist, blistering, boiling skin appears along Jafar's arms, his sleeves burnt away as if they had never existed. His eyes are wide open, not being given even the liberty of shutting them against this excruciating agony. A sheen coats his forehead, the sweat disappearing into his beard.  

You rise to your feet, knees trembling as you look upon Jafar, his freedom in tatters. You don't think, don't even stop to consider the options. There are no options here, only duty.

You will throw away your freedom for his, one final time.

You hate the tremor in your voice as your speak your next set of words, words that will haunt you in the hours to come. "I will do as you wish." Brahim smiles, and he could almost be handsome if not for the poison coursing through him. He lowers his arm, and Jafar's flesh stops smoking, the magic vanishing from his body, his breathing labored as he crashes to the ground face-first.

Brahim reaches for you, taking hold of your chin. You shake off his touch, slippery and cold, hatred burning in your gaze. The Sultan spares an almost pitying glance to where Jafar lays on the ground, still and unmoving. A dizzying sensation rushes through you.  

"Have some time to think about things, Jafar. And when this is all said and done, perhaps I will even give you the opportunity to bow before your Sultan as I watch the life drain from your eyes."

You walk with Brahim, away from the man you have risked everything for, and towards an unknown future that can only be filled with unwavering, endless destruction.

Alone with his thoughts, his body broken and useless, Jafar takes in the sound of your footsteps growing fainter as you slip away from him yet again. He's not sure who he hates more; that devilish bastard for making you suffer, or himself, for failing to keep you out of harm's way yet again.

Jafar doesn't notice the invisible figure creeping into the chamber, watching him with ink-stained eyes before revealing a handful of scarlet feathers tucked gently away in the front of her robes.


	6. The Jaws of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sultan of Shirabad aims to convince the royal thief of his worthiness in a most unconventional way. Meanwhile, Jafar lies wounded as he conspires with a very unexpected guest in the hopes of retrieving the royal thief--hopefully with her life and limbs intact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for taking so long with this next update; I've been writing multiple chapters at the same time, so it's been taking a while. I'm currently in the process of editing the next chapter, so expect that sometime this weekend. I just want to preface this by saying that if you're easily triggered by graphic violence or themes of abuse, then please keep yourself safe and skip over this chapter. I don't want to accidentally trigger someone despite the warnings in the tags. That being said, I am in no way romanticizing or trivializing abuse of any kind. As a survivor myself, I know all too well how damaging abuse can be, and it's something that always stays with you. That aside, here's the next part, and I hope it doesn't disappoint. To those of you who have given me nothing but love and support on this story--my deepest thank you, as always.

As you approach the large double-doors of the royal bedchamber, two things quickly become apparent. One, that you will surely die here, and two, that Brahim has very questionable taste in decor.

You allow yourself to be lead through grand halls featuring wallpaper printed with swirling florals and gaudy paintings displaying scenic landscapes. You wonder if these are supposed to be soothing, when they are, in fact, simply serving as an incredible annoyance.

The guards in the palace's centre are numerous, and it now makes sense as to why their presence in the tunnels was non-existent. They are all here, converged in one section of the building, patrolling the nearby floors and averting their gaze as the Sultan passes with you pressed to his side. You try not to think of Jafar, crumpled on the ground in a heap as you are forced through the doors of the bedchamber, the Sultan's shadow looming at your back.

Upon entry, you spy a set of round, violet cushions arranged neatly on the floor, just at the foot of the bed. Other than that, there is not much in this room except for a large mirror over an elaborately carved golden dresser, white lace curtains hanging from the windows, a stool fitted with a cream cushion, and a small table upon which sits a crystal vase. You had imagined the chamber in which the Sultan and his queen slept to be much grander. Though simple, it would be a rather lovely arrangement if not for the fact that there is a monster at your heels. You feel ill at the thought.

"Sit." Brahim motions to the cushions, locking the doors behind him with a flick of his fingers. His lush robes barely skim the marble floors as he walks.

You remain standing, teeth grinding and glaring defiantly, which only amuses the Sultan all the more. He could be handsome, you think, what with those cheekbones, sharp as glass, but good looks are not enough to pass as beauty.

Brahim will not play your games today. He points to you, then to the cushions, and a wave of magic forces your body down into a seated position. The Sultan lowers himself onto a cushion across from you.

"I think it's about time we get to know each other," he says. " _Really_ get to know each other."

You smile, copying the poisoned grin that you had seen on Jafar's face so many times over the years. You try to push down the feeling that his smile conjures. "I would rather carve my own eyes out."

"Careful," Brahim chides, waving a finger at you, "Or you may just get your wish."

"I do not belong to you," you spit.

"Not yet." The certainty in his tone sends a crawling sensation over your skin.

You allow yourself to assess the room, taking stock of what may be used as a weapon. The crystal vase on the table seems like a good choice if only you could shatter it, preferably against Brahim's obnoxious face. The only other option is the dresser or the mirror, but even you are not strong enough to shift those and hurl them in an effective enough manner to maim him. Unless you wish you strangle him with the curtains, you have very little options.

"Why have you brought me here?" Anything to keep him talking, anything to buy time. To buy _him_ time, you think.

Your question causes Brahim to knit his brows together in confusion. "Well, why not bring you here? Clever, resourceful, determined, and beautiful. What kind of man would not wish to have a woman such as this draped over his arm?"

The temptation to spit in his face is becoming quite difficult to resist.

"And your queen?" you ask, choking out the words despite your anxiety.

"Beautiful, but nothing more. A marriage of convenience, as most are. I am sure you are aware of the...traditions of this kingdom."

Traditions. More like involuntary imprisonment on the part of the women involved. "You are Sultan. Why not change these traditions?"

Brahim raises a brow. This simple act reminds you so much of Jafar that it's infuriating. You must get out of this place at once.

"For what purpose?" The Sultan shrugs. "We rulers must impress upon the common people our unrelenting authority. I do not think that changing such an integral part of our society would inspire obedience in our populace, wouldn't you agree?"

Brahim's gaze falls to his lap when you do not answer. There is a softness in his eyes that you do not like, for it makes him human, that of which he does not deserve to be called. His fingers begin to play with the edge of his gold-lined sleeve. "You wish to know why I gave you your title, why I took you off the streets and bestowed upon you the responsibilities of Grand Redeemer." It is not a question, but you manage to nod despite the hatred burning through you. At the very least, you are owed answers, the answers which you have been denied for so many years.

"I was...taken by you." He still does not look at you, and your body tenses, despising the gentleness in his tone. It is as if he is ashamed of admitting this damning fact out loud. "I had heard of you, heard what a ruckus you were causing on the streets, how you were robbing everyone blind--and how exceptional you were at it. The merchants always spoke of how you descended upon the streets, taking everything you wished without so much as a footstep. And one day," he stops here, pausing to survey the effect his words have on you, "and one day, I saw it for myself. I decided then and there that your talents would be a perfect fit for Shirabad's future. And a perfect fit for me," he adds, smirking. You wish to beat that smirk right off his face. "Sending you out on fools' errands to take back lost items ensured that you were always close and would always return to me."

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, which you do not try to hide. In this moment, here and now, you make the firm decision that you will put an end to this beast with your very hands if you must. For yourself--for being stripped of at least a quarter of your life, for being denied the freedom of being your own master. And if not for yourself then for Jafar, a man whom has had just as much taken from him because of this hell beast. For his pain, for his nightmares, for his unjust imprisonment--you vow that you will end Brahim, Sultan of Shirabad, through whatever means possible.

Jafar was right. A kingdom sent into ruin, and for what? Not for love. Not even for mere lust. _Power_. It has all been for power.

"And Jafar?" you hiss through clenched teeth. "What of him? Why give me orders to kill him?"

A corner of Brahim's mouth pulls up, as if caught by invisible strings. He leans in close, close enough for you to recognize the heady scent of jasmine swirling around him. You feel his magic pinning you in place to your cushion, making it so that you cannot lean away. "I think you know the answer to that one. Where did your loyalties lie? Of course, I had known. Of course. But I had also hoped that you would soon give up on your frivolous fantasy of running off with that insect, but you left me disappointed." He pauses here, his smile reaching his eyes as he leans closer, whispering against your lips. "But you were falling in love with him, and nothing has changed. You _are_ in love with him."

Your lip quivers as Brahim takes your face in his hands, his touch warm, yet nothing at all like Jafar's calloused hands--hands that have always given you the sensation of sunlight dancing across your skin. "What is it that he can give you that I cannot?"

"Everything," you breathe. The realization that this man is about to take full advantage of you in every way imaginable is starting to become a very real possibility. If only you could move, if only you could fight against his magic somehow. You tense the muscles in your legs, testing the bindings to no avail. "He gives me respect, for one."

"Who needs respect when you're on the arm of the most powerful man in the kingdom? He will always be nothing, but you--"

"He is worth more than ten of you."

Brahim nods, laughter edging its way into his hawk-like eyes. "Now, now, Grand Redeemer. Let us mind our words. You will find that I can make you rather...pliable." He lays a kiss to your cheek, and a sharp chill sweeps through your veins. "He will die soon regardless. I will make you want me if I must. I will show you that I am worthy of you in every regard. Perhaps your street thief was right about one thing: there is no fun in pursuing a woman who doesn't want you, so let us fix that, shall we?"

The chill spreading through your body turns to ice, and you are trembling in earnest now. Brahim's magic envelops you, wrapping your body in a blanket akin to that of a lover's embrace.

But the magic's hold on you is anything but gentle, and Brahim forces you to your knees, your chest nearly touching the floor, back toward him as you feel your robes falling away and exposing the top half of your body. You wish to scream, wish to hurl biting insults, but you do not even have that pleasure, for his magic not only pins you in place, but holds down your voice. You feel the Sultan positioning himself behind you, and you are helpless as you wait for him to do his worst. It is as if all the breath is being squeezed from your body, your thoughts swimming.

Brahim presses his lips against your back. "Let us see if we can make you a little more agreeable, shall we?"

You expect to feel his hands upon your skin, but instead you feel the tip of a blade tracing over the raised lines etched permanently onto your back--an wanted souvenir you had acquired for saving Jafar from the executioner's blade. The lines are thick and jagged, and you know they will never heal. You will always have this one reminder of the darkest hour of your life.

And now comes an hour even darker.

The blade cuts into your skin in a feather-soft motion, then plunges deeper, slicing into the scars. You do not scream, and you do not think you would have even if you were able, for you refuse to give this monster any more pleasure other than what he is already reaping. If Jafar could see...

 _No_. You are glad he cannot, for you remember the look on his face when the whip had snapped against your back, and it had broken him. You do not wish to presume that you mean anything to him, that you mean what he does to you, but you do not wish to see that pained expression on his face for as long as you live--which may not be for very long.

The blade continues its assault over your skin, over yours scars, a reminder that you are nothing and no one, a woman with no name, no voice, no place. Brahim means to break you from the inside out, and he will stop at nothing to make you cower.

Hours later, when the wounds have stopped bleeding, the Sultan begins again, cutting into the mess of blood and ruined flesh at your back until you are a screaming, broken mess at his knees. This time, he allows you your voice, wishing to hear your pleadings for mercy. The tears slip silently past your eyes, and you know that you have failed.

***

Jafar is barely holding on to the very flimsy grip he has on reality when a figure crouches over him. His head pounds, and his left arm rests limply at his side, the burns covering his arms like needles. He makes a feeble attempt at lifting his head, because he will not die here, not while you are somewhere in this palace and wrapped around the thumb of that empty-headed fool. The hard gravel at his back cuts deeply into his skin.

Dark eyes--even darker than his own--peer at him in the silence. Wisps of fine hair fall just past her shoulders like black velvet. She is dressed in the uniform of the Shirabad guards, though something tells him a woman would never be found in such position, no thanks to Brahim's ludicrous delusions. Jafar spies movement in the front of her robes, scarlet feathers dancing across his vision.

"Iago," he breathes, taking note of the bird's bandaged wing. Iago struggles to free himself and hops to his master's side with some difficulty.

"The master lives!" Iago's cry echoes several times throughout the chamber. Jafar tries to smooth his fingers over the parrot's feathers, but he winces, the pain in his body crashing into him like an unexpected storm. Instead, Iago crawls up his chest, propelling himself upward with his beak, all while singing a cheerful tune as he begins to pick at his master's face.

"He wouldn't stay put." The woman in the guard's uniform breaks the silence, her voice high and gentle in the room. Gentle, but filled with authority. "He was injured by the guards stationed at the palace gates. I did my best to tend to him. It's not every day that a bird his size just lurks about in one spot."

Jafar inspects her face, the pale skin unblemished and untouched by age. She could never pass for someone born and raised in this kingdom, for her hair is much too smooth, her skin much too light, her eyes much too sharp. She must hail from somewhere across the seas, across the oceans, though throughout the years of his sentence, he had never been able to discover from whence she came. She is young, he thinks, much too young, and something pricks at the edges of his memories. How old was this woman when she was wed to Brahim?

"You are Shirabad's queen." The familiarity of her presence is fresh, and he remembers her, having glimpsed her face only once atop that cursed execution tower. She had been the perfect portrait of obedience then, which makes him wonder why she is not so now. Perhaps she has always been this way, the Sultan having been none the wiser to her carefully crafted facade.

The queen gives a small incline of her head. "Unfortunately, yes, and we must get you out of this place. You may call me Aya." A name that could easily belong to a woman of Shirabad, but also one easily favored by the unknown kingdoms to the east.

Iago makes a very poor attempt at taking to the skies, forcing Jafar to snatch him from the air before he hits the ground. "Stupid bird," Jafar breathes, settling him on the ground. "You are in no position to go anywhere."

"Stupid master," Iago cries. Jafar ignores him, eyeing the queen with mounting suspicion.

"Now why would you want to help me? If I recall correctly, were you not standing idly by the morning I was to have my severed head displayed on a wooden spike?"

Aya is impassive. "I remember the Grand Redeemer," she says, glancing away. "She was kind to me when others were not. She was the only one who never failed me with her honesty and compassion, unlike my husband. But I could not keep her too close, for I knew what Brahim might do to her if I did. Besides, she was already in trouble." The woman pins Jafar with a look, and he knows exactly what manner of trouble she speaks of. "I am indebted to her."

"Does it not bother you that your husband has been lusting after a woman who has lived within your very walls for years? Does it not bother you that the man won't so much as spare you a glance?" Brahim is not worthy of being called a man, but Jafar minds his tongue.

Aya smiles. "No, I can't say it does. He is not the only one with his eyes set elsewhere." Jafar smirks despite his pain, liking this woman more than he planned to. "And I am of no use to him if I fail to produce heirs, which I have made sure will never happen."

"Interesting. I never thought you one to be so eager to commit high treason. What do you plan to do?"

"I will kill him, and if I am not the one to do it, then I will aid those who might be able to. Shirabad deserves a ruler, not a tyrant." There is no hesitation whatsoever in her words.

Jafar agrees, though at the moment he does not care about anything save for finding a certain royal thief, and should Brahim die in the process, it is no stain upon his conscience.

He begins lifting himself off the ground, groaning at the severe sting of his burns. He still cannot feel or move his arm. Iago clicks his beak, annoyed at having to move from the comfortable home he has made of his master's chest.

Aya rushes to Jafar's side. "What are you doing?"

"I must find her." The queen knows exactly who he means. Her lips tighten, forming a straight line over her flawless face.

She reaches out to steady Jafar, careful not to brush against the wounds on his arms. They are scrubbed raw with magic, red and bleeding still. "You will never be able to find your wife in your current condition. The only thing you will find is your death, if you are eager enough."

Jafar stills at her use of the word "wife," but says nothing to correct her. He is stubborn, and he knows it, but he will not sit here, dumb and useless while gods-know-what is happening elsewhere in this wretched place.  

"Let me tend to your wounds," Aya tries. Her voice is soothing. It is no wonder she has managed to survive under her tyrannical husband for so many years. "Recover your strength, then go to her if you must. I can help you," she adds hurriedly, taking note of Jafar's distaste at her words. "I know where she is likely being held, and we can devise a plan to retrieve her. Do not be foolish. You will not help anyone in your state."

Jafar nods, hating the truth but knowing that this is the best way forward, the only way forward. He will find you, and once he does, Brahim will lay beneath the dark, cold ground, his flesh cut into strips.  Jafar allows the queen to lead him away into the depths of the palace. Iago is silent the entire way.

***

For the past few hours, you have laid still upon the marble floor, unseeing and unblinking. The few items in the room had begun to blur into one another, swirling into masses of colors and shapes that were unrecognizable. Magic no longer immobilizes your body, for Brahim wishes to see your pain for himself, to relish in the fact that he is your master and you are his slave, at his mercy. He watches you from the shadows, perched on the edge of the stool at the foot of the dresser. He studies your tear-streaked face, expression blank as a freshly-painted wall, and decides he is not finished with you yet.

You feel every single mark on your back, drawn by your own dagger. You had not seen Brahim pick it up in the cell earlier, but you had glimpsed the jewel-encrusted hilt when he had finally set it down, your blood dripping crudely from the edge. Breathing has become quite the task, for the jagged cuts in your back are deep, and you are surprised that he has not managed to carve out your spine in the hours since this had all begun.  

Brahim stands and pushes you onto your back, ripping a cry from your throat that could very well wake the dead from their sleep. You don't need to look at him to know that having you under his thumb, in precisely this way, is the most intoxicating thing in the world to him. A possession to be played with by a child and thrown away when no longer entertaining.

You feel lucky that you are completely dressed this time. The uniform of the Shirabad guard you had been wearing earlier is gone, replaced by a flowing white top, the long sleeves covering your arms, and a gauzy white skirt with a slit on one side. You wish not to think about what the slit is for, or how you have come to have these new garments upon your body. What matters is that you are covered, but for how long remains to be seen.  

Brahim kneels over you, his legs flanking either side of your hips. You couldn't move even if you tried. Each intake of breath has your body throbbing. "Are you ready to submit to me yet, Grand Redeemer, or do you still require convincing?"

You don't answer. In the last few hours, you have forced yourself to master the skill of allowing your mind to float away into worlds built from daydreams, whisking you away from this never ending torment. If only you could make your body disappear, too.  

"Another round it is then." He kisses your throat, and you immediately think of Jafar, imagining his lips where Brahim's had just been.

Several things happen all at once within mere minutes of each other. Brahim's hand slips beneath your skirt, caressing your hip beneath the fabric, and you know precisely where he means to go with this. Would you be able to take the dagger back from him and slit his throat quickly enough, before he is able to use his magic? It's a risk, you decide, but then another plan begins to form in your mind as Brahim's hand travels higher.

You relax into his touch, steeling your nerves and hoping desperately that this act will be enough to fool him. He smiles, triumphant, and you are glad to see that he is still simply a man, however foolish he may be.

Just as you summon the courage to execute this ludicrous plan of yours, you hear several loud, consecutive thumping noises just outside the door, as if several large and heavy somethings are crashing to the floor. Brahim shoots a nervous glance to the door and drops his hand, crossing the room in a few steps.

"Stay here." You smile sweetly. As if you have anywhere else to be.

When Brahim opens the door and steps over the threshold, he is not prepared for the sight that greets him. You angle your head so you can see, pain washing over you from the effort and shock sinking in as you take in the river of crimson flowing through the halls, splattered on the walls, and a trail of bodies clad in black littering the floor. You squint your eyes and rub at them furiously, hoping against all odds that you are not hallucinating. You think you can make out a very clean-looking cut across one of the guards' necks. Their throats have been slit.

Brahim shoots a furtive glance back at you, wanting to make sure that his plaything is still where he left her. He breathes a curse as he steps into the hall and surveys the damage, retreating back into the room and sealing the doors shut once more.

It is those bodies lining the halls that have you springing to action. You decide that the blood-spattered hall is what hope looks like, no matter how gruesome.

The Sultan hovers over you once again, his hands resuming their position beneath your skirt. His magic flows only when he has full use of his hands, and that--that is your key out of this wretched place.

It is when his hand skims over your bare hip that you take hold of his fingers and yank them back with all your strength. He cries out, making a poor attempt at summoning his magic as you tackle him to the ground, ignoring the fire at your back. You are on top of him, restraining, sitting on his hands, doing anything to keep him from forcing you to bend to his will.

And then you spy the gleam of your dagger strewn on the marble floor, winking up at you like a miracle of your own making. You grab it by the blade, not caring that it cuts into your palm as you slash it across Brahim's face. He falls back, and you run from the room as if the devil himself is at your heels. The sounds of his rage reverberate through you, but you do not look back. You will never look back.

You run, panting hard and trying desperately not to look at the bodies littering the halls. It is even worse when you turn the corner, a sea of black and scarlet blurring together as you speed through the ruins. You don't have time to consider when and how this happened, but you suppose the thuds in the hall moments ago should have been your indication. _But how?_ You think of how clean and precise the cuts at the guards' throats are, and you decide that only one person could have carried out such a gruesome task with such silent precision. Your heart flutters at the thought, offering you hope that may end in disappointment.

As you run, your vision begins to fail you, stars dancing on the walls as a sharp pain burns in your side. You never stop moving. The palace is as familiar as ever--too familiar, if you are honest--and so you decide to make for the top floors, where you know only the highest members of court reside. If the guards converged in the palace's center are any indication, then there should be little resistance on the upper levels. You will be walking straight to your doom if you are wrong.

A flash of brown makes you pause as you vault yourself over a staircase, preparing to turn the corner to the next set of stairs. You draw back, heart thundering at this very unneeded development.

You inhale, filling your lungs with much-needed air, and tiptoe back up the stairs, rounding the corner. A hand immediately takes hold of your wrist and wordlessly pulls you along, and you fight the urge to struggle lest Brahim is right at your heels, hunting you down. The figure at your side pulls you beneath the next staircase and clamps a hand over your mouth, slightly drawing back the hood covering his eyes.

It is Jafar, clad in the garb of a thief, looking much the same as when you had been reunited back in Agrabah. He is completely unharmed, as if the events in the cell had never taken place. You do not know where he got the robes and you don't ask.

Relief floods you as his hand drops from your mouth, and you fight the urge to crush him into a fierce embrace. His finger rises up against his lips, urging you to remain quiet. You nod, hardly daring to breathe as you allow him to pull you through the ruined halls, scarlet filling your vision and his hand never letting go of yours.


	7. Of Blood and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally reunited, Jafar and the royal thief navigate the halls of Shirabad's palace, coming face to face with a chilling resistance along the way. Brahim means to kill them both, though the Sultan may just win this battle even after the dust has settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary for this chapter should probably be something along the lines of "mutual pining intensifies and Jafar is an idiot," yet here we are. I promise I'll make up for this mess in Chapter 8; you all deserve to be rewarded for sticking it out for this long. As always, thank you for all your support. Writing this story is worth it because of you, and every single comment and kudos mean the absolute world to me.

"Don't look. Just walk."

Jafar's steps are hurried as he tugs you along by the hand. He hopes you will not notice the traces of the lives that have been extinguished like a candle's flame. He had done his best to wipe any remaining blood from his skin, but reddish streaks still remain, staining your own flesh with every squeeze of his fingers. His stomach drops as he considers what you must think of him, which is absurd because Jafar has never cared for the opinions of others, not once in his life. He supposes there is a first time for everything.

After a very unexpected rendezvous with the queen, Aya had ushered Jafar to the very top of the palace. He can't recall exactly how she had done it, as she looked hardly strong enough to lift a sack of flour. Perhaps it was because he had dipped in and out of consciousness the entire way and therefore couldn't remember any of it, but he had the sinking suspicion that Aya had not been alone in her daring mission.

His suspicions had been indeed confirmed upon arrival to the queen's secret chamber, and Jafar had stood there stupidly, struck dumb at the sight laid before him. He would never call anything even remotely resembling the magical arts ludicrous ever again.

His thoughts are clouded and unfocused as he pulls you through scarlet-soaked halls. It's becoming more and more difficult to concentrate on anything, no thanks to that scheming queen. Even though his wounds are mostly healed, returning to him his mobility, Jafar still struggles to keep his body moving. He did not expect to find you alive, and combined with the _thing_ contained in the queen's chambers, he is beginning to lose his last scrap of sanity.

"How am I supposed to _not_ look? Forgive me for having eyes." You can almost picture Jafar's frustration beneath his hood as he walks in front of you, keeping you close at his back. Bodies are littered everywhere, and as much as you may try to avert your gaze, it is impossible to not notice this most gruesome handiwork. It is as if Jafar has dispatched the entire Shirabad military, though this is obviously not the case. Still... You pass some guards with more than just their blood spilled, having clearly put up a fight upon sensing a blade pressed against their neck.

Aya's instructions to Jafar had been very clear: the guards in the center of the palace were all his to do with as he wished, to dispose of however he saw fit. These guards, she had said, were the ones loyal to Brahim who bought into his beliefs and whom were willing to do anything to protect their rightful ruler. They were men not much different from the Sultan himself. Any other guards on the lower and upper floors were to be treated with caution, but were not to be killed on sight. Those loyal to the queen would not attack him, and would likely beg for their lives upon recognizing Jafar. Several had been present six years ago as the infamous thief had served out his sentence, and his is not a face easily forgotten. These men, Aya had insisted, would be the ones to keep alive, as their loyalty makes them invaluable. Jafar had reluctantly agreed despite wanting nothing more than to slit the throats of anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. His rage at witnessing what he had in that cell--at seeing the way Brahim had pawed at you--this rage had not ebbed away in the slightest. He clenches his jaw, relaxing only slightly when he feels your fingers squeezing his. You are here, and that is what matters.

Jafar has lost count of how many floors you have traversed through, but he guesses that you are close to the final floor, because the bodies strewn about the halls quickly recede in number. In the time it had taken to heal his injuries, Aya had herself trudged through the corridors, evacuating any remaining guards loyal to her and giving orders that they scour the palace for any servants or officials, and to get them all out. The men had protested--albeit with quivering hesitation--but the queen had been very clear. She would not risk anyone else's life, not any more than she had already done. Personally, Jafar agreed with the guards; someone had to keep watch over the upper floors, as there is really no one left to rule what remains of Shirabad other than a raving madman. If the queen should die, then too does the kingdom. The woman is much braver than he cares to give her credit for.

Jafar slows when he notices your feet beginning to drag across the marble. You feel the wounds at your back splitting, the stars in your vision returning, and so you pause, an explosion of pain drowning your body in the ripping sensation of having your skin pulled apart repeatedly. Jafar stills.

"I can't," you tell him, voice cracking. "I can't go any further."

"You can and you will if you ever intend on gazing upon the sun again."

He is right, of course, but go any further, and you _will_ vomit over what's left of the palace's finery. The pain is overwhelming now that you are standing still. It was less apparent as you walked for the sole reason that your mind had been focused on placing one foot in front of the other.

"What is this?" The sharpness in Jafar's tone snaps you to attention. Something has caught his eye, and he pulls at the hem of your top, crimson spots blooming at your back and wetting the fabric. He thinks he knows precisely what has happened, and he is trying so incredibly hard to arrange his features into a perfect picture of calm. He's not sure how well he's succeeded, because you are drawing back, out of reach, loosening his fingers from the fabric.

"Nothing," you say. "It's nothing."

He sees through your lie but decides not to push--for now. He shall get his answers later. For now, you need only survive. Jafar bends his knees, crouching, and motions his head towards his back. This gives you pause.

"Oh come on, woman!" His frustration is rising. "You are slowing us down and I have no desire to have my arm snapped to splinters for a second time."

His words bring a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you, and you have no choice but to heed his instructions, allowing him to guide you onto his back. Jafar feels you throw your arms around his neck, and he does all he can to ignore the thrashing of his heart against his ribcage. Not now, there's no time for this now. Later. He reaches his hands behind him to secure your legs around his waist, earning him a feeling akin to a drum ringing in his ears. _What foolishness this is_.

You become suddenly aware of how much larger Jafar is in comparison to you, how much taller, how much stronger. His broad shoulders would be enough to completely dwarf the top half of your body, hard muscles knit together artfully beneath his skin. This sends a jolt of terror through you. Why? _This is Jafar_ , you remind yourself. _He will not hurt you. This is Jafar._

But for the first time, you are not so sure.

As Jafar proceeds down the corridors, it dawns on you that there is not a single trace left on his skin of the Sultan's earlier abuse. You had been so sure that you had heard bones snap and watched his flesh boil, but nothing is amiss as he carries you on his back like some weightless artifact, a bird's feather on the wind.

Jafar harbors a guess that your destination is near when a slight tremor rocks the halls. Rubble falls from the ceiling, the walls cracking and snapping like thunder. He stops for only a split-second, adjusting you on his back before breaking off into a run. Sweat beads at his forehead.

"What's happening?" Dust falls into your eyes, which you wipe away on the back of your sleeve. The entire level is trembling violently, causing Jafar to stumble. He rights himself, narrowly avoiding a chunk of wall that comes tumbling down directly above his head.

"That bastard, he means to bring the place down! Just as the woman said he would."

You want to ask whom he means by "woman," but decide that risking his already fragile temper would be unwise.

"Then why are we running towards the upper levels?" you ask, aghast. "If we climb higher, won't the ceiling just collapse and bury us in the ruins?"

"I know what I am doing. You need only stay silent and do as you're told."

Gods, you almost wish he was lying back in that cell, his voice non-existent. "Do you? Because I swear, if I die here, if I die here because of you..."

What you spy behind you makes you believe that you are either completely delusional from pain or that you are experiencing a very vivid hallucination. It is, unfortunately, neither.

"Jafar." You can't seem to find your voice. "Jafar--that is--"

"What on earth are you mumbling about back there?"

You squirm, shifting your body, and Jafar has no choice but to lower you to the floor from sheer annoyance alone.

"What's the problem? I thought I told you..." But his words never come, because you know he has seen precisely what you have. There, crawling ever so slowly towards your heels, is a vast sea of black, an ocean of shadows wishing to embrace you in the most deadly of caresses. 

At first, Jafar truly thinks that they are shadows, perhaps caused by the dying light shrouding the glass panes of the windows. But it is only when the shadows creep closer, scurrying towards the both of you at an alarming pace, that he realizes they are much more than a harmless trick. He spies the sharp points of stingers, his eyes roaming over them in a feeble attempt at taking down numbers, which is an impossibility. There are hundreds, if not thousands.

"Scorpions," Jafar says simply, a slightly panicked edge lacing his voice. Had you not known him so well, you would have never been able to sense his worry. "Those are black scorpions."

The creatures are arranged neatly in swirling rows, as if placed there by the brush of a master painter. There is nothing ordinary about their movements, as their skittering suggests they have been armed with very specific instructions. Everything about them is too controlled, too precise, too...not of this world.

The floor continues quaking, dust and chunks of stone dropping from the ceiling.

Jafar shifts so that his back is pressed flush against yours, and the sea of black only continues advancing. Both paths--the ones behind and in front--are completely blocked, trapping you in a web of stingers and death. It can only be death that is coming. You detect a few of the arachnids climbing the walls and ceilings.

"He means to flush us out," you say. "He can't find us, so he will either flush us out or kill us." So like Brahim. Either he has his prey where he wants it, or he destroys it before anyone else can get to it first.

You expect Jafar to at least utter a curse, but what comes out of his mouth is another matter entirely. "This is all your fault." His tone, while accusing, is rather controlled for a man about to be stung to death by an army of arachnids.

You flush, disbelief seeping into your voice. "My fault! How is this _my_ fault? Of all the stupid things to say, that is what you choose to waste your breath on."

"Perhaps if you had not angered our dear Sultan this would never have happened."

You count to three, closing your eyes against the wave of scorpions bounding toward you. Some have begun to crawl over your skirts, and you fight to remain as still and unmoving as you can.

A throbbing sensation pounds against your skin, and you look down, catching sight of the serpent ring winking at you on your finger. You had nearly forgotten about it, having never taken it off. At least Brahim had not stripped you of this as he had stripped away your dignity. You try not to think too hard on this fact.

How are you going to get out of this? Even Jafar is silent, and that is worrying beyond belief. It seems that even he is coming to accept the prospect that you will both die here. At least you are together. At least there is that.

The throb against your skin is relentless, and at first you think it is your back, but then quickly realize it is coming from the ring. You try to slip it off, but it is hot to the touch. What manner of sorcery...

_Wait._

You lift your hand, studying the serpent ring as if it is the only thing that will stop your soul in its journey to separate from your body.

 _Whatever you do, you must retrieve that serpent ring at all costs. Do you understand me? It is imperative that it rests once more on your finger._ You recall Nadia's words, a beacon of light in the darkness. If she is wrong...if you are wrong...

"Jafar, we are going to walk right through these halls."

Jafar spins, surveying you with sharp incredulity. "We will do _what_ now?" He stares, convinced that you are not in your right mind and that the idea of being so close to death's door has you scrambling for whatever fantasy you think may save you.

"Give me your hand." You take it, not waiting for his assent, and face the hall which lies ahead. The blackness extends far, and you are unsure exactly of how far that may be. Your fingers squeeze Jafar's, bracing yourself for impact, praying to any god who's listening that you will be able to emerge from this unscathed.

Jafar glances at your joined hands. "You have gone mad. This isn't one of your thrilling tales that you can just spin as you see fit. We will be stung to death in mere moments!"

"We will be stung to death regardless if we stay here. You need to trust me. Please," you beg. "You have to trust me. _Do you trust me_?"

Jafar's mouth goes instantly dry. He has faced all manner of dangers in his three decades of life, has seen all manner of things, but this--this is something that he had never expected to encounter, and he finds himself wishing he did not have to. The stingers are a warning among the shadows. "If we die here, girl..."

"Have I ever failed you before this? Trust me. And no matter what you do, do _not_ let go of my hand."

Jafar's face burns in shame at your first set of words--shame that he has only felt once before in a faraway nightmare, your presence as damning as ever.

Before you can change your mind, before you have time to truly consider the reality you are about to create for yourself, you march forward, exuding unwavering confidence, toward what may up being your doom. You hold your head high, fingers gripping Jafar's hard enough to stop the blood from flowing.

The moment you take your first step, the scorpions are upon you both, crawling and grating, stingers poised to drive themselves into your flesh. You do not let this stop you, because you must have your freedom. You _will_ have it.

And then, as if the gods have heard your every prayer, something completely out of the realm of possibility occurs.

Each and every scorpion, from the ones latched onto your skin to those still in the corridor, turn completely to dust. The ring around your finger is hot, and you know you are not imagining the glow of its single ruby eye. You hurry, pushing forward as fast as you are able, Jafar at your side and disbelief etched clearly across his face. His eyes search you wildly, as if the answers to his questions are written upon your person, but he minds his tongue as you wade through the endless sea of ebony, ash and dust blazing in your wake. The floors still tremble, but it is a minor inconvenience in comparison to current happenings.

"Here!" Jafar passes you now, shifting himself so that he is the one leading you. He makes a sharp turn into a small alcove at the end of the next hallway, placing his free hand upon a stone in the wall. The entire section gives way, revealing a magnificent oak door with a knob edged in gold. He pulls you through, the stones sealing shut over it as you enter. You ignore the crimson blooming at your back as he lets go of your hand.

What you notice first is that there are no tremors whatsoever in this room. It is a chamber similar to that in which Brahim had held you, but slightly smaller. There is no bed here. Instead, there is a small white dresser, the paint streaked and chipping away, and a plain wooden stool pushed against it. The walls are bare, shining a warm taupe thanks to the light of the flickering candles. There is not much else here, and you wonder why anyone would go to such trouble to conceal this place.

The second thing you notice is perhaps the most shocking of all.

In the room's centre stands a woman, arms folded over her chest--arms as thick as tree trunks. Her grey-streaked hair is pulled back into an elaborate twist at the nape of her neck, her body clothed in sparkling white fabric that reveals a sliver of skin at her midriff. Silver bangles shine at her wrists, and thick, pale pink smoke rises from her fingers in delicate wisps. Jafar has clearly already had time to process this, because he slumps against the wall the moment he lets go of your hand, legs spread about him like a man resigned to his doom. He tries not to stare at you, truly he does, but his eyes find yours, and he quickly looks away. You focus your attention on the woman and the billowing smoke.

"It seems we keep running into each other." Nadia's voice is as you remember it, lilting and playful with the whispers of something more. "I was correct in assuming that your fate was tied to mine, and by extension, to this place."

Your mouth opens, words choked. You're not sure what you want to say, but surely there is something. You whip your head back, to the corner near the dresser, where you spy a woman clothed in black, her ebony hair falling slick-straight past her shoulders. Iago sleeps on her shoulder, his wing bound by fabric. Several bangles similar to the ones worn by Nadia sit at the woman's wrist, and then you recognize her at once.

Jafar breaks the silence before you can voice your thoughts. "Oh, what nonsense. Is it not about time that you stopped speaking in riddles and uttered some sort of sane, logical thought?"

"Ah, if only Brahim had ripped out your tongue in addition to snapping your bones." The woman in black shoots Nadia an exasperated look. "I would apologize, master, but I am afraid the boy can't help but bring out the worst in me." Jafar snorts, unimpressed.

Master. Your throat closes around the word. _Master_. But that would mean...

"You..." Your gaze darts between Nadia and the other woman, than back again, swallowing hard. "You...are a jinn."

She nods, chin held high.

"But then...you are not a seer?" Your voice turns unnaturally high as you speak the latter.

Nadia laughs, soft and airy. "Oh yes, I _am_ a seer. I have always been one, even before I was met with this curse. Those gifts do not simply vanish once one becomes confined to a pretty trinket and is forced to bend to every foolish whim that rolls of a human's tongue." Her gaze flicks to the woman with ebony hair.  "Present company excluded, of course, master." The woman smiles, warmth in her gaze.

You look between Nadia and Jafar, making the connection. She had healed his wounds as best as she could, even with the restraints on her magic. A jinn cannot bring anyone back from the dead, and healing crosses a very thin line, which must mean that Jafar had been far from death when he had been tended to. This should comfort you, but you find it difficult as you recall the bodies strewn about the halls, a very harsh reminder of who--and exactly what--you have come to love. Jafar is not a monster--you have never believed that to be true--but you can't help but wonder if one day his ruthlessness will be directed toward you. After all, he had committed murder of the most terrifying degree without a second thought, so how much different would it be to turn that anger on you? He wouldn't, he _can't_. _He is not Brahim. He is not Brahim. He is not Brahim._

Your fix your eyes upon the black-haired woman and sweep into a bow, as much as your body will allow you to. Her smile barely curves over her face as she approaches. You are glad that at least she has survived; she deserves so much more than her life for all she has done for you in the years past.

"Grand Redeemer, it is so good to see you again, though I wish it had not been like this."

Your gaze flicks to the bangles on her wrist, a dazed understanding washing over you. "How did Brahim come to have all that power?" You have lived within these palace walls for nearly a decade; surely you would have noticed had Brahim acquired such a devastating magic. The queen touches her bangles, looking to Nadia. The woman nods.

"Jinn magic," Aya says simply. You do not forget Nadia's use of the word "master" when addressing the queen. "My foolish husband acquired an oil lamp that contained this one. I do not know how he acquired it or from where, but I do know that it was not you who brought it to him." This you can agree with. Had you brought the Sultan this mythical treasure, the queen would never have had to stop him from laying his hands on you. This woman has saved you from his wrath more times than you can count, and it dawns on you that this chamber has been concealed for that very purpose. Brahim could be kind, but only when he chose and when it proved to be advantageous to him, but when he was cruel...when he was cruel, the effect was devastating. You pity the queen, knowing that this room has served as her only safe haven for years. "Regardless," she continues, "I came to discover that it was in his possession, and so I rubbed the lamp...and used my first wish to transfer Nadia's essence from the lamp to _this_." She smoothes a finger over one of the bangles.

Jafar unleashes a breath, alerting you to his presence. His silence has almost made you forget that he is still here. "Clever," he says, folding his arms against his chest. "And I presume you made that fool believe that he was still the jinn's master by asking her to grant whatever ludicrous wish his heart desired."

Scarlet blooms in the queen's cheeks, her gaze landing on a spot on the floor. "The scorpions, that is what you mean. I am sorry, but I had no choice. If I did not allow Nadia to grant his wishes he would have very well killed me for my impudence. I had instructed her to grant only those wishes that would not result in anyone's death." Jinn cannot kill, but they can grant wishes that will allow their master to do so of their own accord.

Jafar is not pleased. "Yes, of course, which is why I just happened to find myself with my arm cleaved in two. Hardly something to be concerned about."

"Now you settle down boy," Nadia chides. "Be grateful that the Sultan still allowed you use of your poisoned tongue."

Jafar's eyes narrow. You can sense his temper flaring, even though he has not yet spoken. "Now you listen to me old hag. I will not be grateful for--" He bites back his words, eyes snapping to the door behind him. You know what is coming even though you do not see it.

In the second that follows, an invisible force splinters the wooden door into a multitude of pieces. Stone and wood come flying into the room, splayed every which way. You and the queen are forced to the floor, your head making contact with the brick wall behind you. Jafar is barely able to keep his footing as he screams at you to get down over Iago's incredulous shrieking. The bird somehow manages to land on the dresser, even with his fractured wing, repeating some very colorful curses in the process.

You scan the room, your blood turning to flames, and notice that Nadia is nowhere to be seen. You take note of barely-visible remnants of curling smoke near the queen, but nothing more.

And then you find Brahim, his steps measured and smooth as he floats into the space, reeking of triumph and destruction. The fingers you had broken hang unmoving from his hand. Your throat closes at the sight, the marks on your back coming to life at this most unwanted intrusion. The candles flicker, extinguished at once.

Jafar remains standing before you, having somehow managed to keep his balance despite all the commotion. You suppose that leaping head-first from rooftops since adolescence has given him quite the advantage in that regard. He resumes a relaxed position, but you take note of the tilted angle of his feet, and you know that he is readying to throw himself over you should anything go incredibly wrong. It is such a subtle movement, but it is there.

Brahim flashes a smile that is terrifying to behold. His arm rises in front of him, and the queen of Shirabad vaults high in the air, magic squeezing her body in a suffocating grip.

"Treason does not suit you, my queen." You are rooted to the floor as if frozen in time. Aya glares at her husband straight on despite her pain. "But killing you would not be nearly as enjoyable as having that which belongs to me."

Brahim turns to you, his grin widening, and all the blood drains from your face. His magic on Aya loosens, and she falls to earth once more, emitting no sound as her shoulders connect with the marble. Jafar is already moving, shielding you from the Sultan's line of sight.

"What a shame. Did you learn nothing in all the years you were confined to that jail, Jafar? Nothing good shall ever come to people like you, not until you submit to those who are your betters."

Aya rises, an ache drumming against her knees. A dangerous smile creeps over her lips, and you realize with a jolt that this is the face of a woman who is about to lay waste to the Sultan of Shirabad, a final, parting gift for the man who dared take her from her kingdom when she was barely old enough to make her own choices.

Brahim laughs. "And what do you plan to do, little one? Eager to meet your end, or will you rejoin my side? I will show you mercy if you do what you are told."

"I think we have heard enough from you," the queen says, voice clear and brimming with vengeance fulfilled. "You forget one thing, my Sultan. Power is not everything, though cleverness...that is a most coveted thing."

"You bore me." Brahim flicks his working fingers at her, and then...

And then nothing happens. Jafar takes this chance to drag you behind the dresser, where you spy Iago flapping his wings madly. "You stop that," Jafar hisses before turning to you, motioning you to silence. It's not that he believes the dresser will save you should Brahim choose to hurl his magic at you, but it is better than being out in the open.

You peer past the dresser to see Aya's hand upon one of the bracelets snaked around her wrist. Her lips part, and then she speaks the words which will change the course of everything to come.

"I wish for Brahim, _former_ Sultan of Shirabad, to become powerless in every way imaginable."

A thick haze of pale pink rises from the silver bangle, blanketing the room in the whispers of its magic. The smoke fills every corner, absorbed into your hair and into the gauze-like fabric of your clothing. It even obscures your view of Jafar, who is crouching right by your side.

Brahim's eyes widen so much that he takes on the appearance of a wild animal caught in an elaborate, torturous trap. Smoke twines about his limbs, taking on a very solid and very real weight, restraining him in a way that renders him unable to move. He spies Nadia's form taking shape behind the queen, and you swear he sways on the spot as he takes her in. Delight fills you at the sight of having his own game used against him.

"This," Aya says sweetly, "is for all the years of mistreatment and neglect. Not for me, but for the people whom you so claimed to love but destroyed in the end. Your journey finishes here, Brahim."

Nadia laughs, even more delighted than you. "I do _so_ love vague wishes." She removes one of her own bracelets and wriggles it in the air before the Sultan. The former Sultan, to be accurate. She points to him, then to the bracelet, and understanding seeps into the man's face a moment too late as he disappears to smoke into the curved metal. Nadia hands it to the queen, eyes shining.

"We shall destroy this later," Aya remarks, adding the bracelet to the already vast collection at her wrist. "Or perhaps we shall keep it intact and see how Brahim likes having his freedom toyed with." Her eyes find yours through the dissipating smoke, and you know she means to comfort you. After all, this is the only comfort she is able to give after so much, but it is enough.

You and Jafar emerge from behind the dresser, the sudden silence stretching on forever. Even Iago minds his manners, surveying the chamber through beaded eyes. You assess the damage, the splinters of wood from the door and the false stones flung about the room. Your body nearly sags in relief, the truth striking you dumb.

He is gone. Brahim is truly gone. He will never hunt you down again. Never again will you be reduced to wandering the earth in search of safety that cannot be found.

You sink down onto the stool, surprised that it is able to hold the leaden weight of your body. Pain cracks over your back, but you dare not let this show, for Jafar is looking at you with murder in his eyes as he picks Iago off the floor and deposits him squarely on his shoulder.

Aya whispers something into Nadia's ear which you cannot quite catch. The jinn nods, however, and the queen disappears from the room, in search of the trapped or wounded. You think of the scorpions in the corridors and how their venom had nearly curdled your blood. You bring your fingers to the serpent ring, sliding it off easily. A prominent red welt circles your finger, though it could very well be from having never taken it off. You're not sure what to believe.

Nadia notices the ring in your palm and comes to curl your fingers over it. "I would put that back on if I were you."

You stare at her, brain working furiously. "Did you--were you the one that...did you enchant the ring?"

The corner of her mouth tugs upward. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." Her grin widens at your confusion. "There is magic in these lands stronger than even that of the jinn. It is a simple magic, but it is also the most powerful of all." She steals a knowing glance to Jafar, then looks again to you. Her hand falls over your chest, right against your heart as she whispers conspiratorially in your ear. "It has always been right here."

This is precisely when Jafar marches straight for you, his expression livid and twisted with all the rage of the nine circles of hell. Nadia snatches Iago from his shoulder as he crosses the room and yanks you to a standing position, turning your body so that your back faces him. His fingers reach for the edges of your top, pushing the fabric up roughly and exposing you to the chill of the room. You feel his fingers splayed upon you, gripping hard, and his sharp intake of breath tells you all you need to know.

You realize that you do not want him touching you as his voice booms with barely-concealed anger, his usual control ebbing. "What has he done, what has he done to you!" His fingers press upon the wounds, and you try to lean out of reach, pleading with him not to touch you. His hands remain, and you explode, spinning in place and wrenching yourself away from him.

"Did you hear me?" you shout. "I told you not to touch me!"

Nadia attempts to wedge her way between the both of you. She does not dare to use her magic here, not now. "Now, now children, let us calm ourselves. There is no need to--"

Jafar erupts, behaving as if she had not spoken at all. "Of course you will not allow me to touch you, but you let that fool do whatever he wanted to you, you let that old fool _ruin_ you, and you would let him ruin you again if I had not--"

You grab him by the front of his robes and slam him against the wall, effectively cutting off his words. You would be surprised at your own daring if you were not so livid. A mask of arrogance and indifference lays across Jafar's face, and you are so tempted to snap the back of your hand against his cheek. But you do not, knowing that you will come to regret it later. The venom in your eyes is endless, and you hope that he sees it. You hope he knows how much you resent him for his thoughtlessness.

You shove your hands roughly against his chest, his watchful gaze slicing through you. You have never seen his eyes so hard.

"I did not _let_ him do anything!" you shriek. "How dare you say such a thing, how _dare_ you!"

"Don't like the truth, do you? Don't like the idea of knowing that had you left that cell like you should have--"

"You don't know a damn thing!" You are screaming in earnest now, your fingers grabbing fistfuls of his robes and shoving him hard against the wall. Nadia looks on in horror, her hands resting gently against your shoulders and utterly lost as to how to proceed. "You don't know what it feels like to be caged like you are nothing, helpless and alone! You don't know what it feels like to have your freedom dangling over your head and used as a means of controlling every aspect of your life, nor do you know what it feels like--"

"Oh, I don't know what it feels like?" Jafar's grin is pure poison, though his voice drops an octave, knives lining the edges. "Are you sure? Because if I remember correctly, I do recall spending several years confined behind iron bars with no one for company but a lying, thieving wretch who I had to practically beg to--"

Your fists beat at his chest, not caring how ridiculous you appear to him. "I saved your worthless life, you arrogant bastard! If not for me your head would have been rolling across that tower. I risked my freedom for you, I risked my life for you, and at the end of the day these are the only words you have to spare for me?"

He rips himself from your grasp, and if there was any other moment where you could make him hate you, it would have looked a lot like this.

"I am worthless, am I?" His words are barely carried on a whisper. "Of course, because you would have much preferred the company of Brahim, a _king_ , rather than the company of a murderous _thief_."

You step back, tears threatening to spill as you utter the only words you are able to manage.

"Get out."

Jafar simply gapes at you, and he knows he has crossed a line that he may never be able to come back from. But you do not care. His words have cut you worse than the dagger pressed upon your back. You shout again when he does not move, your voice high and loud in the near-empty chamber. Tears stain your cheeks.

"Get out, I said _get out_!"

Wordlessly, Jafar exits the room, making for the ruined entrance without so much as a glance back, his robes billowing behind him.

When he is gone, you collapse to the floor, unleashing the tears you have been holding back for so long. Tears at being treated as Brahim's plaything, his _possession_...just as you are now Jafar's shiny new toy.

Nadia cradles you in her arms as the emotion leaves your body through salt-water and heart-wrenching screams. You want to be allowed your weakness, just this once.

Unbeknownst to you, Jafar hears it all, from beginning to end.


	8. Back To The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Sultan of Shirabad's defeat, Jafar makes a terrible mistake that could cause him to lose the only thing he holds dear--even if he is unwilling to admit it. Meanwhile, the royal thief considers her options as she wanders the palace at night, not knowing that Jafar has been hoping she would allow him the opportunity to plead his case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been absolutely terrified of posting this chapter, partly because I haven't written anything like this in years and I'm worried it's horrible. I am so humbled by the positive responses to this story, and it should go without saying that I love you all. Thank you, as always, for all your love and kindness.

Jafar has not seen or spoken to you in a little over a week. He has spent most of his waking hours aiding the queen in returning some semblance of normality to Shirabad's palace, sifting through the remaining guards to ensure there are no traitors in their midst, and helping the servants clean up the mess he had made of the upper floors. The latter had nearly broken him, not because he regretted his actions, but because of what it could mean for his friendship with you.

 _Friendship_. That would never be enough, no matter how many times he tries to tell himself otherwise. He wishes it could be enough.

Jafar has felt nothing but rage lately. It comes from a deep place, a wounded place rife with abuse and mistreatment and the knowledge that no one will ever view him as anything more than a common thief, that no one will ever look at him with anything other than thinly-veiled disgust.

He avoids mirrors, despising the hardness he sees in his eyes that has been carefully forged from years of life on the streets. He is reminded of the blood on his hands, and he knows that the monster lurking within has risen to the surface, and he is only feeding it, rousing it from its sleep. The monster had been at full strength when he had put his hands on you in the queen's secret chamber.

He hadn't meant to, truly he hadn't, but he had seen the blood blooming at your back when you had traversed Shirabad's halls together, and he was tired--oh so tired of you pretending that strength was the only face you could show him. Then again, Jafar believes that indifference is all he can show you, so perhaps he should not be so hasty as to make rash judgements.

Those marks on your back had undone him in the worst possible way. These were not wounds created through magic, but by a carefully handled blade wielded by a madman who took pleasure in pain, who had been drunk off the power that his actions brought him. Jafar knows this because he had spied the scars beneath the angry red cuts, still visible years after he had been forced to watch you being whipped atop that cursed execution tower at his expense in very public view.

His rage is not directed at you, or even at Brahim, really. No, it is for himself, for being unable to shield you yet again from pain you should have never had to endure to begin with. He wonders what else the former Sultan of Shirabad had done to you in that bedchamber, but he doesn't allow himself to go there, for a wave of nausea washes over him at the thought that he could have...

Jafar inhales, letting his breath out slowly. Gods, he should have killed that man when he had the chance. It would be justice, however warped.

Yesterday had been difficult. He had been seated in the dining hall along with the palace servants and others close to the queen when he had spied the gleam of Aya's bracelet from across the room...which he had then proceeded to tear from her wrist with the practiced grace only a thief could manage. She had not noticed what had happened until he had made it past several floors, Nadia smoking into existence and berating him for being so foolish. Jafar had returned it begrudgingly, muttering that he only wished to have a word with the former Sultan. Nadia suspected that that "word" took on the form of ramming a fist square into Brahim's face.

It is early in the morning, darkness blanketing the palace, when Jafar twists and turns in his bed. Aya had insisted that he stay at least until his injuries had completely healed. Nadia had been able to tend to most of them, but even jinn magic has its limitations. A few more days should be enough before can finally take his leave of this place.

And you. He will also be taking his leave of you. He tries to push the thought away, his insides squirming at the thought.

"The pretty lady stirs!" Jafar's attention snaps to the open glass window mounted high into the wall. He can see the palace gardens beyond it, and on the sill sits Iago, his wings flapping ridiculously. Though he will never admit it, he is glad the parrot is safe despite the injury to his wing. The fabric binding the fracture is gone, as Iago is far too stubborn to remain earthbound for long.

"What is it now?" Jafar sighs, exasperation seeping into his tired voice.

"The pretty lady, the pretty lady!"

" _Please_ don't. It is far too early in the day for your silly quips."

Jafar shifts his body away from the bird, the silk sheets tickling his bare skin. He hears the flap of wings, and knows that Iago has once more taken off into the night.

Jafar is fighting a losing battle, and he knows it. In his mind, he can clearly see the faint outline of the kingdom's western-most prison, the gleam of silver on the highest point of a tower, and stormy eyes edged with sunshine. It is this last one that gives him pause, and he dares to allow himself to imagine a life in which he is not constantly running from the guards, a life where he has someone at his side who understands. Perhaps most of all, he wishes for someone to love him, an impossibility of the highest regard.

His laugh echoes in the silence. When has he become so soft? Spending so much time with nothing but women has clearly rendered him incapable of thinking logically.

Footsteps at his door cause him to still. He had left his door slightly cracked open, not thinking that anyone would be so foolish as to try him at this hour of the night. He strains his ears, listening for sound, the footsteps soft and hesitant as they retreat back into the hall.

His blood rushes in his ears. Jafar knows those footsteps well, having been given the pleasure of listening to them daily for four years, then in his dreams for an additional two. He sits up in bed, making a choice that is so unlike him that he almost stumbles as he slips out the door, forgetting his robe in his haste.

***

It is three in the morning when you decide to roam the halls of the palace, looking for something that you know you should not want. Your steps are loud on the marble, clicking in time to your thundering heart. There is no one here to chide you to sleep, as most of the servants and what's left of the royal guards are likely asleep themselves--and rightly so. After that ordeal with Brahim, it is a wonder that anyone is able to do anything more than sit idly by, soaking in the horrors of the last week.

You have wandered the expansive floors repeatedly, walking up and down the stairs from the first floor to the tenth more times than you can count. What you seek is on the third floor, just down the hall from your chambers, but you have been avoiding it even though that is precisely where you wish to be.

At first, Aya had assigned you a room in the guest's quarters, in the women's section, in order to maintain some sense of decorum after all that had occurred. However, Jafar's brooding expression had been impossible to ignore, and so the queen had give you a room in the servants' hall, located just opposite of Jafar's chambers. She had guessed you would not want to be separated despite the whispers of the argument that had reached her ears.

After arguing with yourself for several more minutes and steeling your nerves, you clutch the scarlet shawl partly covering your hair and descend to the third level. It looks so much like the shawl that you had worn when departing for Shirabad, and so when Nadia had handed it to you, you dared not question it and simply took it from her outstretched hands. You pause outside an elaborately carved wooden door, heart racing. It is slightly open, enough so that you may effortlessly duck your head in.

Peering into the room, you can barely discern the lush drape of the curtains and the bed perched in the centre, the sheets undisturbed save for the figure resting atop it. You swallow hard.

Jafar lays on his side, his back to you and torso bare. You watch the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the only suggestion that he must be soundly asleep. As much as you wish to speak to him, as much as you desire his attention, even for only a moment, you take a single step backwards, reconsidering.

You know that he has not had any kind of restful sleep in days, not since before Brahim had taken him prisoner. Sometimes, you had spied him dozing off in the midst of the dining hall which was always full of loud, rambunctious conversation. He would almost always jolt violently awake after mere minutes, wiping the nightmares from his eyes. You do not want to take from him the little peace that he has likely seen in a while, and so you retreat, watching as his body shifts in the darkness, making you still at once.

You steal one final glance before retracing your steps back to your chamber, the lanterns in the hall illuminating your path. You are careful to make as little noise as possible. What you forget is that while you are a thief, so is Jafar.

You sink yourself into bed, sitting upright and recalling yet again the way you had shouted at him a mere nine days prior.

It had not been his fault that he had reacted the way he had upon seeing your ruined back, but then his biting words come back to you, flooding your ears with a burning fury that could be matched by nothing else. You almost wish to apologize to him for shouting and laying your hands on him much in the same manner that he had done to you, but it is the venom that had snaked past his lips that stops you. The weight of his hands against your skin had made bile rise in your throat, but it was nothing compared to the accusations he hurled at you like stones.  

You are about to drift off to sleep, thoughts of murder and treason and hushed apologies swirling in your head, when the sound of your door creaking open bolts you upright. It shuts with a click, and your first instinct is to ensure that the scarlet shawl is completely covering your hair. You had never really bothered wearing it, but the events with Brahim had shaken you so much that you would be willing to do anything to ensure that you are invisible, unseen as much as possible.

Your heart thunders at this intrusion, poised to strike as you always are when faced with a possible threat. You spy the shadows moving in the near-darkness, folding in on themselves. Carefully, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and tiptoe towards it. A single sliver of moonlight filters in through the window, projected on the marble at the foot of the bed. A figure steps into that very light, and you fight the urge to run, your chin trembling at the sight.

As a single, unmarried woman, this intrusion is completely inappropriate and breaks all the rules of basic decorum. This has obviously never been something that you had cared about before, which is why your heart flutters in delight at the face peering at you from the center of the darkness.

It is Jafar, bare-chested and regarding you in stony silence, eyes blazing. You can't stop yourself from allowing your eyes to roam his body, taking in the hard layer of muscle beneath his skin. He is cut from the workings of an artist's hands, molded and shaped into joyful perfection. You notice the dusting of dark hair across his chest and force your gaze away before he notices the thrill that the sight of him gives you. He takes a step forward, eyes never leaving you.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" you ask, your voice brittle as you try and force ice into your tone. "And can't you knock? I thought that you of all people would know better than to barge into a lady's chambers without permission."

He doesn't answer, and you swear that you spy a sparkle in his eye forged from the waves crashing against a shore.

"What is the matter with you?" you continue, forcing your temper to rise. "What foolishness is this? Have your injuries also claimed your tongue or have you simply--"

Whatever you were going to say, you don't get to finish, because Jafar is pulling to you him, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace. So crushing, in fact, that you find yourself physically unable to breathe. His arms are like a vise around your waist, pressing you closer against him even though there is already no space between you. His face is buried in your neck, and you feel the scrape of his beard against you.

"Jafar, what...?" But you are given no explanation, for a sudden wetness begins to dampen your neck, and you realize with startling certainty that it is Jafar's tears you feel against you, silent and desperate.

You feel his shoulders begin to tremble ever so slightly, and you return the death-like grip he has you in, wrapping your arms around his body and pressing your lips to the top of his head.

He pulls back, hands still gripping your waist, and there is such startling rawness in his eyes that you almost wish you could look away. He seems to remember himself, and his hands drop, hanging at his sides.

"I...I am sorry."

You can only regard him in shock, for you have heard nothing pass through Jafar's lips in all the time you have known him other than biting sarcasm and poisoned insults. You hold your breath, lifting a hand to his cheek, but he leans out of your reach, forcing your hand to drop awkwardly in front of you.

He tries to look at anywhere but you as he begins to speak. "I--I never meant to presume that you..." He goes silent, trying again. "My words were thoughtless. I did not mean to imply that you enjoyed--that what he had done... I did not mean to treat you as if..." He is trying so hard to find the words, words that he knows will not come. There is nothing that he can say which can adequately express to you the depths of his regret.

Shame floods him, and he averts his gaze, moving to exit the room. "This was a grave mistake. I--I apologize."

You grab his wrist, and he tenses, turning back once more to look at you. "I know," you say, nodding. You are not sure what he sees in your eyes, for he is looking at you in such a way that forces all the air from your lungs. "I know you did not mean it. It is alright." You wish to offer up your own apologies, but you are struggling to find your voice.

You draw back, and Jafar takes a single step toward you, a slow hesitance written over his every movement.

He edges closer, noting that you are not moving away. "May I?" he whispers, using that honeyed voice you have come to love. You're not sure what he's asking, but then his fingers reach for the fabric covering your hair, lightly tugging at either side. You know he is not asking for permission, because he will do as he likes, just as he always has. What he asks for is your approval or rejection of him, and if it is the latter, he will walk from this room without a single glance back.

Your tongue darts out to smooth across your lips, the hunger in Jafar's eyes making you cower before him. You give the barest of nods, and just like that, his fingers slowly pull away the shawl, making it silently fall to the floor. You feel naked without it, an ache beginning to grow somewhere below.

Jafar cradles your face in his hands as if you are made of glass. He regards you in silence, reverence coating his features and a splendid warmth seeping into his eyes. You feel his lips brush against your forehead, and you close your eyes, recalling a single night spent in a Shirabad jail, savoring the joy that this one simple gesture gives you.

He draws back, and you bring your hands against his chest, feeling him still beneath you, his heart doing back-flips beneath the heated skin. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, not touching his lips at all as your hands trail down his torso, coming to rest at the ties slung low across his hips.

He has lost any and all ability to think as he relishes in the feel of your hands on him and the whisper of your kiss against his skin. You are looking at him not with the disgust that he is so used to, but with the love of a woman who is ready to throw everything away at his feet. Jafar dares allow himself to hope, to hope and wish and dream that this is not his imagination and that your desires are a mirror-image of his own.

He inhales, failing miserably at controlling his rapid breath. "You would allow a monster to ruin you?" he asks, low and dangerous. "A murderer, a mercenary? You know what I am. You know what I have done, and you know that was not the first time, nor will it be the last." He thinks of the bodies strewn about the palace, the throats slit from ear to ear without so much as a care, and he wonders whether it rests heavy on your mind as well.   

"No, not a monster." Your voice is quiet, soft, as if speaking to a young child. Jafar does not blink, lest your words slip past his ears. "Not a monster," you repeat. You are very aware that this could go wrong, so horribly wrong, that you have been reading him wrong since the day you first met, but you force the words past your lips anyway. "Not a monster, but the man I love..."

You wait, watching Jafar's face morph as your meaning sinks in and his world spins. He is certain that he has misheard, that he is actually dead, his soul trapped in the deepest layer of hell where he is being taunted with the life that could have been his had he not allowed it to slip through his fingers.

Your fingers trail up his abdomen, feeling the wisps of dark hair that you know extend further below. "Kiss me, you bastard," you breathe, and a wicked grin curves over Jafar's face, alerting you to the fact that the rude, abrasive fool you have been so taken with is alive and well, back in full force.

"As you wish, _girl_."

You don't have time to interpret his emphasis on that final syllable, because his lips are crashing hard against yours, his tongue in your mouth as you open for him. His hands smooth over every curve of your body, grasping and feeling and squeezing over your clothing. You both crash to the floor in your desire for each other, Jafar's hand under your head to cushion your fall. You eagerly pull him on top of you, your nails raking across his back as his lips find yours repeatedly in the darkness. The floor digs in to the wounds crossing your spine, but you don't care, focused on nothing and no one but the man hovering above you.

Your fingers reach greedily to undo the ties at his waist, eagerly helping him to rid himself of the fabric concealing his legs. You find it difficult to take any kind of breath as you behold the sight of him completely bare, already hard and aching for your touch.

It is the first time in a long time that you feel powerful and free.

"Like what you see?" he asks, his every word turning your insides to liquid. His smirk exudes confidence.

"Don't be obnoxious." Your hand reaches for his groin, and the smirk immediately falls off his face.

It is precisely in this moment, your fingers firmly wrapped around him, that Jafar knows with utmost certainly that he will give you whatever you desire. Anything that you ask of him, whatever whim falls off your lips, he will fulfill it all. He is ready to pluck the very stars from the sky and arrange them neatly in your hair in the shape of the constellations, should you ever request it. And with this realization comes the truth--the truth that he has fallen from the sky and down to earth, lost in the music that is you, grasping for anything that will cushion this unexpected--but perhaps not so unexpected--fall.

He thinks he would rather keep falling, and this, above all things, is what frightens him most.

He has never stuck around long enough to know the sweetness of love's embrace, nor has he ever dared to seek it out. For he knows what happens when he gets too close, his true self ripping through the mask until he is left completely alone, broken and useless.

Jafar gapes at you, unable to speak. His gaze lowers to your fingers, warm and soft around him, and the fluttering in his abdomen spreads, uncontrollable and uncontained. There is so much he wants to say, so much he wishes to voice out loud, but he has lost the ability to string together anything even resembling coherency.

You shift your body closer, your fingers tightening around him. The groan that escapes him makes you want to get on your knees before him, a devout pilgrim worshipping her god. He is watching you, unblinking, and it is when you begin to move your hand back and forth that he bruises your lips in a kiss, his hunger palpable as his tongue slips into your mouth. The scratching of his beard against your skin has you gasping for air.

He undresses you in a blur, his hands squeezing at your hips as he kisses you with undisguised desire. Every movement of your lips against his burns in a way he can't quite explain. Your hands reach for him desperately, trailing over his chest, his arms, his face with a feverish need to touch every single part of him all at once. You tear yourself from him, gasping, and scrape your teeth against his chest, covering his skin with bites and desperate, open-mouthed kisses. A sound escapes Jafar, and he tries to choke it down as he squeezes both your breasts in an effort to stop his world from spinning. Not once in his life has he ever wanted a woman as much as this.

Your tongue flicks out to lick at his skin indecently, and a shudder rips through him. It is here when you take his hand and place it against the slickness running between your thighs, your lips pressing quick, breathless kisses against his own. "Feel that?" you breathe. "That is what I have had to endure for the last several years as I lay awake at night, imagining you filling me."

His whimper is choked, barely making it past his throat. "You are destroying me," he says before sliding his fingers effortlessly inside you, earning him a delighted gasp as he kisses you. His kisses are forceful, dangerous, and you know he wishes to devour you in ways you have not yet allowed yourself to imagine.

"How does it feel to be filled by me, girl?" he whispers against your mouth. "Perhaps you would prefer something... _bigger_." You feel his smirk against your lips, knowing very well the effect that his words have on you. It is taking all his control to not force you on your back this very instant and take you with every ounce of his strength. He wishes to enjoy this, to take pleasure in the sounds that escape you and the reaction he is able to elicit with his fingers and a few well-meaning words.

His fingers begin to move inside you, excruciatingly slow, and you throw your arms around his neck in an effort to steady your rapidly beating heart. You tilt your head back, lost in the feeling of him filling you, and his lips instantly meet with your throat, his tongue smoothing over the skin there. You dare imagine what that same tongue would feel like against your wetness, leading you into a world of satisfying ruin. His name escapes you, echoing in the room like a prayer.

"Again," he says, voice low and cracked. "Say my name again." And you do, whispering his name over and over again in the darkness as his mouth kisses and scrapes at your neck, your lips, and now your breasts as his fingers continue to work between your thighs. His kisses grow in number, and they are quick and everywhere at once; Jafar is unraveling quickly, and he knows it better than anyone.

"Come here." His voice is urgent. You don't have time to ask what he means, because he stops his ministrations and cradles you into his arms, lifting you off the floor and crushing your lips in a frenzied kiss once more. Your legs wrap around his thighs, his hardness pressed between you as he carries you to the bed, depositing you on it like a priceless treasure. The cuts on your back sting from the pressure, but you say nothing, marveling as Jafar hovers over you and gently forces your thighs open with his knee. He looks at you, breathing hard and silent. You give the barest of nods, and his lips twitch into a barely-contained smile before his head disappears between your legs.

His fingers spread you open, exposing you to him, and there's nothing he can do to stop the painful ache growing somewhere below. His beard scratches at the delicate skin of your inner thighs, making you sigh and squirm as he presses soft, gentle kisses to your flesh. It is as if the wind is whispering across your skin.

He lifts his head just enough to give you one final look, laughter dancing in his eyes, before smoothing his tongue over your wetness, and you force down a scream. Jafar doesn't dare stop, his tongue gliding over you, up and down, in and out, his hands squeezing your thighs to keep you still. He knows he is a dead man when your sighs and moans reach his ears, his name repeatedly rolling off your tongue. If he were to die now, he would welcome death with open arms and would go to it as the happiest man in all the kingdoms. The sight of you lying there, vulnerable and wanting him, has Jafar at your utter mercy, even though you are the one whimpering beneath him. He forces his tongue inside you repeatedly, stoking the fires of desire within you. He suddenly stops, positioning himself over your body, his lips gleaming in proclamation of what he has just done.

His eyes are blackest onyx as he regards you, gazing at your face with a mix of uncontrollable lust and the glowing warmth of a friend-turned-lover.

"You _are_ lovely," he says, meaning every word. You have no words, nothing to offer him in return except your body moving against his. Jafar brushes the hair from your eyes as he ghosts a kiss over your forehead, then your lips, trailing a blazing path down the length of your body. He places one final kiss firmly between your thighs before spreading you open with his hands once more. Your eyes land between his legs, at his hardness, which aches and throbs almost painfully. You no longer have to imagine what his sex would feel like, for it is no longer a fantasy.

He takes hold of himself with one hand, rubbing gently over your wetness, testing you. He will not go further until you tell him to, refusing to make the same mistake he had in the queen's chamber.

You gasp at the feeling of his flesh against you, a most welcome reminder of what you can have if only you tell him yes.

Which is precisely why you hate what ends up coming out of your mouth instead.

"Jafar, stop."

He draws back, blinking hard as if emerging from a century-long sleep. He pulls further away from you, going to cover himself with the sheets, but you take hold of his wrist, pulling him back against you. Surprise veils his expression, but he allows you to do as you wish.

You can see the faint slivers of rejection, fresh across his face, and you're not quite sure how to tell him what you're thinking. Heat rushes to your cheeks at the mere thought.

"What is it?" he murmurs, eyes dancing. Some of his previous fire has dimmed.

You take both his hands into your own. You had never planned to tell him, having preferred to bed him without giving him this particular piece of information. But the thought that this could be nothing to him and everything to you crosses your mind, making you hesitate as he had prepared to join his body with yours.

"I've never done this before." You don't dare look at him, choosing instead to fix your gaze somewhere on the wall behind him. Embarrassment floods your body.

 _This_ causes both his brows to lift up in surprise. He untangles one of his hands from yours and forces your face to his. His smirk is obnoxious, and your heart flutters in spite of it. "You are a liar."

You shake your head, unable to make your voice work. How can you possibly explain this to him and have it make any sense? His grin simply grows wider at your silence.

When it comes to bedding men, you have done many things over the years, many of them unspeakable and enough to make even the most seasoned of women blush. You have done nearly everything, but you had never allowed a man to take you completely, never giving up that part of yourself that would completely surrender any and all control you had left. Men were fickle creatures; a flash of skin, a few carefully-whispered promises, and they were willing to throw the world at your feet. It had been so easy to get what you wanted through such means, but there were still things that you would not do, whether out of fear or from wanting to retain your freedom to choose. After all, you had never been given much choice in life, and this is the one choice you have perfect control over. The thought of surrendering that choice--and worse still, doing so freely--makes you tremble.

You tell Jafar as much, and he listens silently, his grin fading and carefully considering his words before speaking. "And what about now?" he asks, holding you close. "What do you desire now?" He can't help but allow a small scrap of hope to seep into his voice.

You peer at him through dark lashes, heart still hammering at the fact that he is oh so very naked and pressed against you, still hard and still yearning for you. Your cheeks go crimson at once. "I want..." you begin, unable to get the words out. Jafar gently cradles your face in his hands, his forehead touching yours. You swallow, trying again. "I want this, and I want _you_ , but I am so afraid."

You are almost ashamed to admit your fear. You have spent your entire life dodging palace guards, traveling in foreign lands searching for non-existent treasures, escaping men who have tried to beat into you the idea that you were made to submit to their will. And yet, here you stand, afraid of the only good thing in your life, the only man that may prove himself to be worthy of what he desires from you.

Jafar's hands rest on either side of your face, his breath tickling your lips. He is so close. The familiar ache returns. "Do you believe that I will hurt you?" he whispers.

All you can do is stare into his eyes, black as his crimes and with the tiniest drop of warmth. He opts for a different question when you don't answer the first, the same question that you had hurled at him mere days ago within these very walls. "Do you trust me?"

You don't need time to think about your answer. "No." His flinch at that single syllable is unmistakable, but you rush to get your words out before he can pull away. "I don't, but I trust you to be kind when it matters most. I trust you not to break me when I'm already broken, and that is what makes all the difference."

He understands, and his devil's grin returns for the briefest moment before crushing his lips against yours once again. "I will make you feel like a queen," he breathes out against you. "But you must decide for yourself." He will gladly take whatever you choose to give him, and what you have already given is enough, though he will never stop wanting more. For he remembers those nights in Shirabad well, and he is glad that it was you who found him, broken and alone, all those years ago.

"I will tell you this," he says. "It is you who gave me my freedom, you who gave me my voice when I had none, and I will never forget that. I am not looking for a woman who will be a slave to my every wish, but what I am looking for is--" _Say it Jafar, say it_. "I am looking for..." _Wife. Say it Jafar. **Wife**_.

"I am looking for an equal," is what he says instead, hardly daring to believe the foolishness he had nearly uttered out loud, desires that he didn't even know he had. He thanks his lucky stars that for once he has been able to keep his tongue firmly in place.

You don't know what he means by this, but you do know that he is speaking from the heart, a rare thing for a man like Jafar--a man who has always swallowed down his bitterest secrets alone and wandered helpless and lost in the darkness.

Before you have time to reconsider, your fingers find their rightful place between his thighs, and you grip him hard, taking pleasure in his sharp intake of breath. You lean in and whisper against the shell of his ear. "Take me, Jafar, and make it count."

This is what breaks him, unraveling him completely from the inside out.

He manoeuvres himself beneath you, sitting upright, and you know it is because of the wounds on your back, but you can't say you mind this extra bit of control. You keep your eyes firmly locked with his as you lower yourself onto his lap, the tip of his length pressing against you, your hips sliding over him, feeling the weight of him.

"Get on it with it, woman!" You almost laugh at his impatience, knowing that he has waited long for this--perhaps just as long as you have.

Slowly, you begin to lower yourself onto him, and you resist the urge to close your eyes as you feel him filling you completely. He is thick, stretching you in a way that is both painful and pleasurable at the same time. Jafar's eyes begin to shut tight against the pleasure, your warmth enveloping him like silk. It is as if you were made for him, precisely for this purpose.  

"Don't close your eyes," you say, breathless. You want to see his face as your body finally joins with his, and what you see is absolutely delightful.

Jafar is looking at you as if you have put the moon and all the stars in the sky. His pupils are wide, lips parted in ecstasy, his groans choked as he feels your slickness around him.  He glances down to where your bodies are joined together, and he swallows hard, his blood boiling at the sight.

"Move," is all he manages to choke out before squeezing your rear hard enough to leave bruises. You obey, not wishing to prolong this any more than you already have as you begin to move your hips against him, the friction driving him mad and your wetness growing with each roll of your hips. Jafar grabs a fistful of your hair and wraps it once around his hand, tugging your head forward into a kiss made of stardust and flame. His hands roam your body as you move, over your hips and up your back, though he stills momentarily when he feels the wounds there, dropping his hands back to your rear. You guide his hands up, assuring him that it's okay, that even though the wounds sting, it is nothing compared to the blissful pain of having him inside you like this.

It doesn't take much for you to find your release. Jafar's teeth are grazing over your breasts, pulling and scraping hard against the hardened flesh there. You nearly scream when that final, electrifying wave of pleasure finally crashes over you, your muscles tightening almost painfully around Jafar's length.

"Let me hear you," he says, lips at your jaw. "Let me hear how good I make you feel." And so you do, allowing the screams to fall from your tongue as his hands claw at your skin, branding you with his touch.

You feel Jafar tense beneath you, the hands on your rear leaving marks you know will take weeks to fade completely. His gasps and moans the only sound racking your ears. You know he is close, because his hands reach to push you gently off him, not wanting to cause any foolish accidents. You are already lifting yourself off his lap, a sharp breath escaping you at the loss of him. He reaches for his hardness, intending to finish himself off, but you nudge his hand away.

"Keep still," you tell him as you duck your head between his thighs and take him into your mouth. His eyes snap open, completely focused on you, hands fisting into your hair. He is unraveling, thread by thread, at the feeling of your mouth on him, hot and inviting.

You swirl your tongue around him, daring to take him in deeper, and he pulls roughly at your hair, hardly believing his good fortune at not only getting to have you like this, as he has always imagined, but at getting to have you in this particular manner.

He spills into your mouth, tasting of warmth and salt, and he is left gasping, eyes black as the night sky when he manages to open them once more. You swallow, feeling no shame.

" _You_ come here," he manages to choke out, capturing your lips in a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. He bites your bottom lip hard, pulling, regarding you through half-open eyes before smoothing his tongue out over your chin, licking away the last traces of stickiness that tell the world what you have just done.

You shiver, collapsing into his arms. You are still both breathing hard, floating gently back to earth as your lips continue to find each other, soft and reassuring.

Jafar buries his face into your neck, trailing a hand over the cuts on your back. You roll off him, and he reluctantly lets you go as you lie back on the sheets, him quickly moving to hover above you. His fingers begin to trace invisible patterns over your torso, and he is smiling down at you, a rare smile that you have only seen once before. It is a smile filled not with sarcasm, nor with malice, but with the joy of a man who has finally understood what it means to be completely and utterly fulfilled. He goes to rest his head on your shoulder, your heart swells to twice its normal size.  

"Why did you seek me out in Shirabad all those years ago?" Jafar asks, breaking the spell of comfortable silence that had fallen between you. His voice is hushed and smoother than the silk lining the sheets.

You don't even stop to consider his question, for you know the answer quite well. "Because I thought you were handsome."

He peers up at you, brows raised, but the cat's grin has returned. "Is that truly all?"

"Yes," you say, unable to hide your own smile. "I am sure that men and women before me have walked towards their doom for much less."

"And what made you stay?"

You shift, resting your forehead against his as you grasp his face and lay a kiss to the tip of his nose. "You were just like me, _are_ like me. Your only crime was trying to survive in a world that was not made for you. That is all."

He settles down next to you, fingers tangled with yours. He is not looking at you. "Do you know what I was thinking when I was dragged to that execution tower?" You still, breath lodged somewhere in your throat, whisked away to a time and place that you wish to forget. "I thought that it might not be so bad to die, especially after..." He trails off, and you hate that you know exactly what he means. "But then when I saw you, when I saw you running up that staircase, screaming my name like that--" He pauses, swallowing hard. "-- _that_ is when I knew I would be willing to do everything I had to in order to survive."

"Was it worth it?" you ask, heart thundering. "Surviving?"

"Yes," he says. "Very."

You watch Jafar's face shift into something different, something you can't quite explain. He sits up, letting go of your hand. "Let's go somewhere."

You shoot him a quizzical look. "Where on earth do you wish to go? It's nearly sunrise." You can feel the beginnings of sleep begin to stir behind your eyes.

He ignores you, pulling on his trousers and throwing your own clothes at you, shawl and all. "Come with me and find out." He stands up, a gleam in his eye. "Or, if you would prefer, you may stay here alone and enjoy the absence of my body next to--"

"Oh alright!" you interrupt, cheeks heating for no reason other than the proud look on his face. "Let's go."

You dress, and allow yourself to be lead by the hand, through the palace halls and out into the early morning air.

***

The palace grounds are quiet, and there is no one about except a few guards patrolling the gardens. They nod as you pass, an almost apologetic look on their faces but allowing you and Jafar to roam as you wish. The queen had no doubt given her orders as soon as Brahim had been dealt with.

You nearly stop breathing as you realize where Jafar is taking you. He walks in front of you, steps brisk and silent, his hand still tangled in yours as you approach Shirabad's western-most prison. The gate is unlocked, and he leads you wordlessly through. This time, there are no guards to stop you.

Inside, separate cells--all empty--sit side by side, built right into the brick of the building. There is a path stretching down between them, and Jafar's grip on your hand tightens as you walk down it to the separate chambers you know lurk within. He stops at one that is on the right-hand side, slipping through the unlocked door with you in tow. A cramped cell sits in the chamber; the door, too, is unlocked.

Tears begin to prick at your eyes, hating this place and everything it stands for. Why has he brought you here? What on earth would make him, of all people, want to return here?

Jafar is about to stride inside the cell when he notices your hesitation and glimpses your face. "Don't cry," he says. "It makes you look foolish." But you can hear the laughter in his voice, and you know there must be a reason why he has brought you here, and so you laugh in spite of yourself, wiping at your eyes.

He leads you inside and sits. You copy him, taking in the stillness of this place.

"Not so bad now, is it?" he asks, perhaps more to himself than anyone else. He laces his fingers with yours, his head resting on your shoulder. Your heart skips at the familiarity of his actions and what they signify.

"What happened to your family?" Your question makes him steal a glance in your direction. Despite so many years getting to know him in this pitiful room, you had barely been able to get him to speak, let alone piece together where he came from and why. It comes as a surprise when he answers immediately, hiding nothing.

"My mother was a seamstress who worked day and night. I cannot say that I remember her well, but she raised me until..." He trails off, unsure whether he wants to share this part of his life with you.

"Until what?" you prod gently.

"Until she was murdered in broad daylight by my father. His jealousy was his ruin, as it was hers."

You can't escape the feeling of horror falling over you. You want to say something, anything to steer the conversation elsewhere, but you have no words that can possibly explain the sadness you feel at Jafar's admission.

He continues, oblivious to your discomfort. "I watched him do it. I was home at the time, looking after my sisters. I could sense that a fresh argument was about to begin so I told the little ones to hide. I wanted to intervene on her behalf, but..."

But he was just a child, frightened for his sisters and powerless to help the woman who had sacrificed everything to raise him.

For a fleeting moment you wonder if this had been precisely when Jafar learned violence for the first time, seeing it wielded as a weapon against those he loved.

"You have sisters?" you ask, trying to steer the conversation away from what he has just revealed.

"Yes, I did. Three of them. I was the oldest." You try hard to imagine Jafar growing up in a household full of girls, running around trying to keep them out of trouble and having to grow up too fast in order to provide for them. No wonder he's so brilliant at stealing and lying his way through the world; he's had an entire lifetime as practice. You don't comment on his use of the word _did_.

"And you?" he asks. "What of your family?" He is playing with your fingers now, twisting and turning the serpent ring that is now a permanent part of you.  

"Mother married a foreigner," you say. Jafar glances at you from the corner of his eye, finally understanding where you got your eyes from. "He was in my life until about the age of seven. After that, he disappeared. Never returned." You laugh, full of bitterness. "I suppose that was to be expected."

"And after that?"

"And after that it was just mother and I, struggling to survive. I learned to do what I had to for her, for us. Taught myself how to read, write...and of course, to steal. It all went downhill after that."

Jafar finally turns to look at you, his gaze warm yet sad. Perhaps sad that you are both mirror images of each other in the same ways and wishing desperately that you weren't. "Is that who you were protecting, as Grand Redeemer?"

You nod. "For a while, yes. I had been wandering through neighboring kingdoms for the longest time, in search of finding my fortunes there. I hadn't seen my mother in a while, and when I returned to Shirabad, she was gone. Brahim threatened to kill her if I did not serve under him, and so that is what I did." You laugh humorlessly, recalling the memory. "What I did not know is that he had already killed her long before my return home."

Jafar sighs, defeated at hearing the truth uttered out loud. "I am sorry," he says, and you know that he means it. You simply nod. His eyes glow in the darkness of the jail, but it is not as dark as you remember it.

"When you leave for Agrabah, I am coming with you."

Jafar's head jerks up, brow raised. Traitorous hope rushes through his veins. "You would leave this place behind?"

"Wherever you go, I follow."

The hope crushes him, spreading like sunshine throughout his limbs. "Are you certain that this is the life you wish to choose for yourself? To go back to having nothing, stealing to survive? Because that is what you would be returning to."

"You are the life that I am choosing for myself," you say, resolution burning. And you speak the truth, because with Brahim dealt with, you have all the freedom in the world to do as you with, go where you wish, and frequent those you wish.

Jafar has not made you any kind of promise, no sweet murmurings of what the future may hold for the both of you. The only promise he has made was that he might remain by your side and would willingly return to your bed should you allow him that privilege. You have made your choice, and it seems he has made his.

The corners of his lips twitch upwards before meeting with the back of your hand. "Tell me a story," he says.

You fight against the smile cleaving your face in two. "What kind of story?"

"Anything. Anything you like."

You know exactly which one to weave for him, having had years to prepare for this retelling. He knows all the details, just as he knows the most intimate curves of your body. "Once upon a time, there were two thieves. One was a common man, the other, a woman given a royal title. This is the story of how they met, their lives changed forever through a single, common thread..."

Jafar chuckles quietly, pleased. This time, unlike all the others, he stays awake throughout the entire tale, your voice carrying him through memories brimming with bitterness, pain, and the beginnings of first love. He falls asleep only when you have repeated for him the story's ending--twice--drifting off into honeyed dreams teeming with hope, his head on your shoulder. For the first time in his life, he sleeps knowing that his future may not be so uncertain after all.

 


End file.
